Villainy
by Roan Harkin
Summary: Sequel to The Cure. Non-linear erotic fiction. WeskerXRebecca, BillyXRebecca, LeonXClaire, ChrisXJill, AshleyXHUNK
1. Chapter 1

**One**

The room is quiet. There isn't much light, but he can still see the place has been torn apart. A desk and an executive's chair stand before an entire wall of large windows. There's a pile of black suits strewn on the floor at the foot of the staircase. CDs and DVDs have been pulled out of the wall unit. Someone has taken a sledge hammer to the piano. Someone was looking for something.

Bits of shattered glass crunch beneath the thick rubber soles of his boots. He gazes around, wondering why they asked him to meet them here. He doesn't know what this place is, or its significance. He thought they would have better taste than this, a ransacked penthouse. But he's used to this kind of scenario – looted apartments and office spaces. They're great places to hide. No one ever returns to them.

He starts to wonder who the previous owner of this place is. No doubt he'll find out in a few moments. For the time being, his mind wanders. The guy was rich, that's certain; the designer suits are evidence enough, and the piano is a baby grand. He wonders what kind of business the guy conducted. He knows, from experience, that anyone who has this much money can't be a simple, honest entrepreneur. Honesty doesn't get you this kind of luxury.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

He looks up. Another man is standing at the top of the staircase. He locks his knees back, anchoring himself.

"What is this place?"

"The former penthouse of a very dangerous man."

"Someone tore it to shit."

"We went through it before you arrived."

"You're Hollum?"

"Yes."

"You wanna come down here, maybe? I've got a kink in my neck."

Hollum chuckles and slowly descends the stairs.

He watches as Hollum makes his way to the desk, which has escaped the search relatively unscathed. He's trying to see what he looks like, but most of the lights are off. All he can tell for certain is he's young, scarcely past thirty, and thin. He shivers, then notices one of the windows is open. Cold air has started to blow throughout the room, ruffling some of the papers that are lying on the carpet. Hollum sits down on the executive chair.

"I've got something very important to discuss with you," he says.

"Can I turn on a light?"

"No."

He laughs lightly at the straightforward manner of Hollum's response. "Are you familiar with the name Albert Wesker?"

The smile quickly fades from his face.

"Why?"

"Yes or no?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"If you know the name, then you more than likely know why you're here."

He folds his arms, tries to look Hollum in the eye. A pot light in the corner is bright enough to reflect off Hollum's hair; it's strawberry blonde.

"You expect me to go after him?"

"I'd like you to do what you can."

"Which is what?"

"Wesker, as I said before, is a very dangerous individual. I want him apprehended." Hollum leans forward. He can discern a long, pointed nose and thin lips. "But, of course, if you're not comfortable with arresting him yourself…"

"What's in it for me?"

"Immunity."

He looks away, his eyes falling on a right-handed chaise that's been torn apart with a knife. He's sceptical. He's been offered the same thing in the past, and it always came with a sacrifice. There's no reason to believe it now.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. I suggest you keep your head down, however. No strings will be pulled unless he's successfully taken in."

"You can pull strings?" he asks, the cynicism sneaking into his voice.

"Yes."

"What if I say no?"

"That's your choice. Before you do, though, there's something I'd like you to see." Hollum holds his hand up, and he hears a jangling sound. Suspicious, he strides forward. He's not too far away when he finally realizes what Hollum is dangling between his fingers.

Dog tags.

"We found these," Hollum says, "during our search. Do you recognize them?"

He nods.

"They belong to a member of my intelligence team," he continues. "Rebecca Chambers. I have reason to believe Miss Chambers is now under Wesker's influence."

"Influence?" he mutters. He's getting angry.

"He's a man of many talents. Mind control being one of them."

"Brainwashed?"

"More than likely."

He takes a deep breath and releases it as silently as he can. It's best not to show too much emotion at times like this. "I want Miss Chambers returned safely, and I want Wesker in custody. You, I'm told, are quite adept at moving in and out of the shadows, given your current predicament. Bring him in alive and I'll make sure you can walk the streets a free man." Hollum leans back.

The offer has been made.

And he doesn't have to think twice.

"You got it."

He's about to leave.

"Mr. Coen," Hollum says, a tone of warning in his voice.

He stops. "I want him alive, do you understand? Despite the logistics of our meeting, this is a legitimate operation. And Miss Chambers' safety is of the utmost importance."

Billy nods.

"Nothing'll happen to Rebecca," he replies. "I guarantee it."

Wesker, on the other hand… he's a fuckin' dead man.

 **Two**

Leon and Claire are at a gas station somewhere in the mid west. It's 6:30 pm. They've been driving for hours, drinking coffee and taking turns at the wheel. Claire insisted on getting Cumberland back into protective custody. Leon doesn't think it's a good idea; good or bad, the sides are no longer easily defined. But there was no other choice. The road they chose to follow left civilization behind hours ago. Aside from one or two truck stops, all they could see for miles was barren country side and the occasional cluster of trees. They haven't spoken much.

This isn't a road trip, of course. This is business. Still, there's a feeling of freedom that comes with this long drive. They're grateful that, for the time being, the only thing they have to concentrate on is escaping. It's early in the flight; these hours are crucial; they're the only chance the team has of disappearing before someone, somewhere, is given the task of tracking them down. As soon as they passed beyond the city limits, Claire turned on the radio. She kept it on a lower volume at first, until a song Leon liked came on. Then he leaned over and cranked it. Claire didn't mind the noise at all, not even when the bass reverberated so loudly the speakers gave off a buzzing sound. She was just relieved she didn't have to say anything.

Now at the pump, Claire is still kicking herself for what happened. Her hands stayed tightly around the steering wheel the whole time; she had to force herself to move them if she had an itch. She's paranoid that even the slightest move she makes will remind Leon of the things she said, the things she did, the decisions she thought were best. She's afraid anything she says now is going to be dismissed, that he's not going to trust her choices again. Almost ten years have passed, and she still hasn't learned; the people in authority are not necessarily people she should rely on.

Same shit, different day.

She kept on stealing glances at Leon, all the time wondering what he was thinking. Leon's face, however, never gives too much away.

Leon watches the numbers as they climb on the meter. He has no idea where they should stop, or when. His superiors at the SS have tried to contact him a couple of times over the past several hours. He's not answering his phone. For the first time in a long time, he's made the decision not to answer to anyone. They'll probably try to track him down, but he doesn't care. If anything, their training has worked too well. He knows how to stay out of sight. He smiles to himself. He had no idea sticking it to the man would feel so liberating. He hasn't felt this way in a long time.

Not since he quit the force.

He turns and watches Claire in the rear-view mirror of the car. Of course, she drives a Mustang. He wouldn't expect anything less than a Mustang for her. He sees her drumming her fingers on the trunk; she's waiting for the $20 mark. The look on her face, the position of her body, reminds him of a summer he spent working at a gas station when he was sixteen. He would pretend to be reading a comic book, but instead his eyes would peer over the edge of the page at the girls who came by to fill up. The cutest ones were older and had their own cars. Leon's always had a thing for older women, though he won't admit it to anyone. Claire pulls the nozzle out of the tank and replaces it in its cradle, then screws the cap back on the tank and flips the little door shut. She turns and heads inside to pay. Nostalgic, Leon takes a good, long look at her ass.

He blushes.

The gas station doubles as a 7-11. Inside, the song playing over the speakers is an older rock tune, and one of Claire's guilty pleasures. She'd never confess she likes it to anyone; there's something about it that embarrasses her, though she loves the melody and corny lyrics. She stands in line, waiting for the customer in front of her to finish making a purchase before she has to step up and pay for the gas. There are open boxes of candy sitting on the counter top. Claire recognizes them all from her childhood; the red and black liquorice, the cherry bombs, the pop rocks. She remembers playing in the street with friends she hasn't seen in years, the stupid things they said to each other, the favourite sayings and Saturday morning cartoons. She smiles.

 _How the hell did I get here?_

As the customer ahead of her starts to argue with the clerk, Claire tries to remember every choice she made that led her here, to this gas station, on this night, and under these circumstances. It's impossible to count them all, impossible to say where she made her first mistake. There are too many things to consider; her parents, her friends, even Chris. Every day she made one choice over another; and every hour several hundred more choices to boot. Nothing stands out as obvious, as something she should have known to avoid in order to escape this fate.

 _Fate… am I gonna call it that now?_

Leon's stomach starts to rumble. He wonders when the next truck stop will be, thinks about where they're going to spend the night. He knows their ultimate destination, but they won't reach it for at least another 18 hours. He groans and runs a hand through his hair, then rubs his tired eyes. He used to make trips like this with his father, years ago, when they went fishing or visited his grandmother. Leon loved getting take-away burgers and fries and eating them in the car as they drove. His dad told the same story every time, too; about when he first got his driver's license, and how he immediately went to a diner and bought greasy fast food to eat in his mother's station wagon. Leon closes his eyes and smiles.

He doesn't know how he ended up here either.

Leon keeps his eyes closed and listens as Claire puts the key into the ignition and starts the car. After a moment, he feels her looking at him and opens them again.

Claire is holding a Slushie out to him.

"No way," he sighs happily.

"I thought you'd like one," she says.

He sits up and reaches for it.

"I would. Thanks."

"We should stop at the next restaurant and get something to eat," she says. "Are you hungry?"

"Yup. You?" he asks. He lays the straw against his bottom lip. Claire looks away.

"I could go for a burger."

"Me too."

He sips the drink, then smiles at her. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?"

"My favourite flavour."

She grins.

"It's blue. Blue isn't a flavour."

"Yeah it is. Tastes like blue."

She shrugs.

"Lucky guess."

He keeps looking at her, hoping he can get her to smile.

"Good choice, Captain," he says.

Her heart skips.

"Thanks," she murmurs.

They pull out of the gas station and head into the dusk.

 **Three**

1:30 am.

Rebecca is leaning against a brick wall. She's watching a group of four men as they finish their shift. She can't understand what they're saying, but they seem to be in a good mood. They call to each other, laugh heartily. One of them busies himself by pulling a long metal fence closed and securing it with a pad lock. They're dressed heavily in thick coats and hats. It's cold; the weather report said that night the temperature would drop to just above freezing. Rebecca doesn't feel the chill. She's too focused on the task at hand.

She's waiting for his next transmission. He told her it would occur when she reached the correct destination. He's tracking her, but she's not sure how. The equipment he's provided her with is extremely advanced; the gadgets are polished metal and chrome, the uniform is black and expertly tailored. He spent the last week training her to use the positioning devices correctly. Rebecca's gaze narrows as the men start to dissipate. She's wearing black leather firing gloves.

Somewhere in the distance a train horn sounds. This is an industrial area. The building is large and grey and looks like a giant cement block. A chain-link fence, topped with razor-wire, surrounds the entire complex. She's done her research on this facility. They don't employ guard dogs. The information is comforting; ever since that night, she's been afraid of large breeds.

Her PCD starts to beep. She pulls it out of her breast pocket, pushes the correct button. His face appears on the screen. As usual, he's inscrutable. "Report, Miss Chambers."

"I'm outside the facility," she says.

"How many of them are there?"

"Four. They look like they're leaving."

"There's an elevator located in the northern wing of the complex," he says steadily. "Make your way there when they're all gone. Stay close to the walls. We don't want you showing up on any surveillance footage."

"Understood."

"The elevator requires a key for operation," he continues. "You'll have to climb the cables to get to the third floor."

"Do you want me to contact you when I get there?"

"That's not necessary. I'll know when you're successful."

"Alright."

He ends the transmission abruptly, his image disappearing in a crackle of static.

When the men have finally driven away, Rebecca makes her move. She heads for the complex, her head bowed, and takes a pair of wire clippers out from the pocket of her harness. Steadily, and with tremendous speed, she goes to work on cutting the links in the fence. She's surprised she's able to move so quickly. If someone had told her a few weeks ago that she'd be able to move this way, that she'd be breaking into a structure like this, in the dead of night, with his orders echoing in her ears, she wouldn't have believed them.

She laughs as the thought occurs to her. It's about time she started to expect the unexpected.

With this kind of equipment the fence is easily bypassed. Rebecca heads to the north end of the complex and sees a small window leading to the men's bathroom of the facility. Just as she suspected, it's open. She gets the leverage she needs from a nearby crate and slips into the building feet first. She pauses briefly, listens for any approaching footsteps that she didn't anticipate. When all is clear, she leaves the lavatory and makes her way to the elevator. It's a load bearing elevator, the kind large enough to move heavy wooden skids, and is exactly where he told her it would be. The doors are open, and she steps inside. Just as he said, the elevator can't be operated without a key. Rebecca looks up at the thick black cables. A grappling hook is the next tool she uses to hoist herself onto the top of the cart. In a moment, she's climbing the cables.

She thinks about the last couple of weeks. He was exceptionally focused on honing her skills, didn't crack a single smile as he told her exactly what she needed to know if she wanted to continue. It reminded her of her days with S.T.A.R.S., of the first time she ever laid eyes on him during the first training seminar he gave the team. He spoke like a disciplined soldier, and she almost felt as if she'd joined the army. The various disciplines he's mastered are staggering in number. He's a true Renaissance man. Since that first session all those years ago, she's come to know a different side of him; a side that's more demure, but just as uncompromising.

And she'd do anything for him.

When she arrives at the third floor she swings with enough momentum to land on the hard concrete. She falls forward onto her hands, mutters a curse before standing upright and looking around. Two long hallways stretch out, one in front of her, the other leading off to the right. Hundreds of doors are lined up along the way. She doesn't know what's behind the other doors. She's only concerned with the door he's sent her to find. She still doesn't know which one it is. It doesn't take long for her to find out. Her PCD beeps again. She answers it. "Well done, Miss Chambers."

"Thanks."

"I trust the cables didn't give you too much trouble?"

"Not at all."

"Good. Take the corridor to your right until you reach unit C2236. You'll be presented with a combination lock. To open it, enter the following code: 09-01-60."

Rebecca smirks.

"Any significance with that number?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it with you now, Miss Chambers."

He sounds serious. She doesn't press him further.

She walks down the corridor. The air is stale and smells of mildew. She's reminded of the old facility back in the States. She remembers the run down equipment, the dusty rooms and lack of supplies. She wonders how everyone's doing now that the whole thing has gone to shit. Claire is probably worried sick, Leon as calm as ever; Jill's most likely struggling with her emotions. She's always been sensitive.

And Chris; angry as ever. But trying his best.

Rebecca finally reaches unit C2236. She kneels in front of the lock. She can tell it hasn't been touched in a very long time; the dial sticks a little as she turns it. Still, she spins it until the correct code has been entered, then takes it off the latch. She opens the door. There's a light switch to her left. She flips it, and a bright, naked bulb turns on, illuminating the space. The unit can't be more than 6' by 6'. The floor is carpeted and free of debris. The shelves are empty. The only thing in the unit is a small, black box. Rebecca crouches down, picks up the box, and opens it.

She can't believe what she sees.

Her PCD beeps again. She answers it. "You've succeeded, I suppose?"

She nods, but is too overwhelmed to answer. "You look unwell," he says.

"No, I'm not, I'm just… I just can't believe…" She pauses. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's exactly what you think it is," he replies.

She laughs lightly, more out of disbelief than anything else.

"Oh…"

"It's the only one in existence. Its whereabouts has remained hidden, of course, for obvious reasons. I have you to thank for retrieving it for me."

She continues to look at it, fascinated. "Now, head for the…"

He stops suddenly.

Rebecca looks at his image. Something has caught his attention.

"What's wrong?"

His tone changes. He speaks to her steadily, but with urgency.

"Listen to me carefully," he says. "Go to the end of the hallway and make a left. You'll see a ventilation shaft about fifty feet ahead of you. Get into the shaft and follow it to the first bend, then turn right."

Rebecca can tell something is wrong. She doesn't ask what. "Exit the shaft through the second grate," he continues. "The room has a window that looks out onto a stretch of roof. Leave the complex through that window and meet me at the rendezvous point as soon as you're able."

"Right."

"And think about how I can reward you, Miss Chambers."

She smiles.

"Will do."

"I'll be in touch," he says. The transmission ends.

He slides out of his chair, reaches for his jacket, and heads for the door. He's going to pick her up himself.

Someone is following her.

 **Four**

The sun is setting on the horizon. It's quiet, hot, and sticky. It's dry enough that clouds of dust are being churned up by the slightest breeze. Black birds are circling overhead, though there isn't much on the ground to peck at. It's a ghost town, right out of a Hollywood Western.

Jill thought she would be more emotional, but she isn't. Her arms are hanging at her sides, and she's slouching. Now that they're here, she just feels exhausted. Too much time has passed. She looks around her, at what was once Main Street, and tries to remember, tries to feel something other than numbness. It's not working.

Ahead of her, Chris is sitting on his haunches. He's clasping a handful of dust in his hands and staring off. He wanted to come here, convinced Jill to come with him. He's needed this. It's funny, now that he thinks about it. He never thought he'd want to come back, to see where it all began. It used to be a sweet memory, but something's poisoned it. All he can hear now are innocent people screaming. All he can smell is death.

All he can think of is him.

Wesker.

Chris looks back over his shoulder. Jill is looking past him at where the earth meets the sky. "Hey," he says.

She meets his gaze.

"Hey," she says softly.

He looks down at the dirt in his hands.

"Thanks for humouring me."

"What do you mean?"

"For coming here with me."

She smiles sadly and shrugs.

"What the hell else do I have to do now?"

He chuckles and lets the dust slip through his fingers.

"I used to go for drinks over there," he says, pointing at an area. "That was Terry's Pub. Best wings in Raccoon."

Jill smiles.

"I remember that place," she says. "Half priced wings on Wednesdays."

"Oh man, those were the best."

"Yeah. Remember we used to pick them up and bring them back to the station?"

"The only thing I liked about working Wednesdays," he nods. "Didn't have to wait as long."

"That's because they thought you'd arrest them," she teases him.

"And they were right. Man, those were some good wings."

He looks at her. She doesn't know what else to do, so she smiles.

Chris has jogged Jill's memory. She starts to recall bits of conversations she had with friends, when she was out on weekends. She thinks about places she used to visit, the sights and smells of the neighbourhood, the people who she saw every day, even the ones she didn't know by name. She rubs her hands down the sides of her pants, looks around again. Everything is gone. Despite her recollections, she can't feel a thing. The blast obliterated everything.

Jill included.

"What do we do now?" she asks Chris.

He shakes his head.

"Wait for Claire to call, then hook up at the rendezvous point."

"I'd like to know where it is," she says, annoyed that they're still being kept in the dark.

"So would I. Leon knows a place, she said."

Jill catches the tone in Chris' voice.

"You don't sound too happy about that."

He sighs, then looks at her again.

"You wanna know something, Jilly?" he asks. "I don't trust Leon. Not as far as I can throw him."

Jill knew things between Chris and Leon were strained. She didn't know exactly how much, though.

"Why not?"

Chris stands and walks over to her.

"He's shady."

"Yeah?"

"You know he's shady, I'm not off on this."

"He seems alright to me."

Chris puts his hands on his hips and looks around. He doesn't want to look Jill in the eye. He doesn't want her to guess what he's thinking.

She will, though.

The minute Leon volunteered to go with Claire, Chris' back was up. He tried not to let anyone notice, though he suspects Jill could sense his trepidation at the time, and now as well. Leon is a highly-trained government agent; there's no doubt that he's familiar with subterfuge. He's aware that Leon has been seeing Ada Wong, understands that Ada was working for Hollum. Who can say that her loyalties haven't changed?

He also knows, for a fact, that Leon isn't as discerning about his relationships with women as Claire might think.

He's worried.

Jill can see the tension on Chris' face. She doesn't ask what he's thinking. She can read him like a book, but he still deserves his privacy. Part of that is the right to not voice every concern he has to her. At least not right away. It all comes out eventually. It always does.

"This is some fucked up road trip, huh?" he asks. "Like chasing down a freak show." He looks around.

"Yeah," she says.

"And now he's got Rebecca."

"It wasn't just him, Chris. It was a whole organization."

"You feel sorry for him," he says, challenging, his temper rising.

She nods.

"A little, yeah."

Chris' jaw tightens.

"Why?"

"He was just as much a victim as everybody else."

"He did a lot of damage, Jill. Killed a lot of people. Horrible things."

"I know."

"And you feel sorry for him?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I know what it's like to have someone tell you what your place in life is," she says. "I know what it's like to have someone choose for you."

"What's that like?"

She can only think of one thing to say. It's a little dramatic; she can't say it without a small smile, even though it isn't funny. "Like being an orphan."

Chris looks away. He knows exactly what she means. He's selfish, however.

He doesn't want it to be true for everyone.

She reaches out, takes his hand. He squeezes her fingers in his. The remnants of the sand scratches her skin, but she doesn't mind.

"I can't believe it's gone," he murmurs.

"Me neither."

"Did they have to blow it all to hell?" He looks at her. "Did they really have to blow it all to hell?"

She shakes her head, and shrugs, helplessly. "I don't know…"

 **Five**

"Try and hit me."

When he first stepped into the room she nearly started to laugh. He's wearing a black, form fitting tank top, blue canvas pants that have buttons that snap closed up the sides, and running shoes. The muscles in his arms and shoulders are exposed to the light and air, and are so clearly defined they cast shadows on his pale skin. Even beneath the top, she can still see his well-toned abdomen.

Who better to train her for her new, clandestine career?

This is the first time since his stint in the holding cell that she's seen him wear something other than a suit. He's still wearing his glasses, of course, and his gloves. But the way he circles her slowly, waiting for her to throw the first punch, makes him look athletic. And she wanted to laugh because she was taken aback, couldn't help but want to demonstrate her delight. To her, he's never looked better.

Rebecca's cheeks flush. She grins.

"I can't hit you," she says.

"Are you sure?"

"Well…" She rolls her eyes, runs her hand through her hair nervously. "Come on!"

He smiles.

"One punch."

She squeezes her eyes shut, puts her hands over her face, embarrassed. When she takes them away again, he's still looking at her. "One punch," he says again, his voice low, his smile remaining. "Come on now."

"If I actually hit you, it's because you let me."

"Perhaps you'll land one of your own accord."

"Yeah, right."

He steps up close to her. Even dressed like this, she can still smell his cologne.

"I'll make it worth your while, Miss Chambers," he says.

She looks up at him, beaming. She likes him this way.

This retreat, as he calls it, is located somewhere in the mountains. Rebecca's not sure where exactly. It's not a very large place, though it has a gym and other facilities, but it's beautifully decorated and offers a gorgeous view of the summits. She doesn't know if he owns it, if he had it built specifically for him; other than the two of them, there's a staff of three which consists of a cook and two young women acting as chambermaids. The staff surprised her when she first met them. She was so used to being alone with him, to being waited on solely by him.

He must have taken her threat seriously. It's endearing.

She starts to circle too, to keep the distance between them, and tries to plan a move, to surprise him. She doesn't know how serious he is about her landing a punch. There's no way she'd be able to do it. He's too fast, too strong, too cunning. She tries to keep focused on the task at hand, but her eyes keep drifting over his body, keep taking in his form, his stance.

He can tell she's not concentrating, and that he's the reason she's distracted.

"Something wrong?" he asks with a sly grin.

She shakes her head. "Focus now. You can do this."

"Who are you? Morpheus?" she says with a laugh.

He nods.

"Yup," he replies jauntily.

"You saw that movie?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"Did you like it?"

"It's one of my favourites."

She grins, keeps circling.

"Really?"

"For an action movie, it's pretty good."

"I didn't think you watched movies like that."

"Don't change the subject. Hit me."

She wonders if he ever thinks about those weeks, now that they're over. She wonders if it tore him up as much as he said it did. She refused to talk to him, to even look at him. She wanted to hurt him, and he was cruel in response and lashed out. The mood now, however, as they move across the floor, as he trains her the way he was trained, is playful, fun. Apologies have been accepted. But not completely. Something remains. She's pushing it aside.

And she wonders if he's pushing it aside too.

Rebecca lunges at him, the way he told her to. Of course, he's lightening fast and dodges her blow. She strikes back with her leg, taking comfort in the fact that no matter how hard she tries, she can't physically harm him. Again, he steps out of her way effortlessly. At one point he stops, watching her as she contemplates her next move. He pretends to yawn, and they both laugh as he once again disappears in a blur of motion before she can barely graze him. She goes over his words in her head as he dodges every punch she throws, remembers the things he told her to keep in mind, the ways in which she can outsmart any opponent. Suddenly she brings up her hand, and he stops, his cheek inches away from her knuckles.

They smile at each other.

"You would've landed that one."

He's proud of her.

She lowers her chin, looks at him through her lashes with large, green eyes ablaze.

"You let me win," she murmurs, slipping her arms around him.

"Maybe," he says. He takes her hands, holds them behind his back, and heads for the steam room, leading her along with him.

"The real bad guys won't let me win."

"They won't have to," he says with a grin, his lips just out of reach as she tries to kiss him.

"You're ruining my hand-to-hand combat training," she points out.

"Don't worry, dear heart," he says as he opens the door and brings her into the mist. "I can train you in other disciplines."

He turns her around and presses her up against the wall; she lays her cheek alongside the tiles, cool despite the heat of the steam, and closes her eyes when he starts to strip her. His hands, still gloved, still dangerous, remove her clothing roughly, masterfully, and tell her that she'll always be his pupil in matters like this. She sighs, bites her lip as his hips press against her. Her soft flesh exposed now to the heated vapour, all she can feel is the cool ceramic wall on her nipples, her stomach, her sex, her thighs; then, his black leather gloves, and his breath on her neck.

"You let me win," she says as his arm encircles her waist. She feels him slide out of his pants. Her knees get weak.

"Yes."

"I won't learn anything if you let me win."

"There's plenty of time for you to learn."

He takes off his shirt, his shorts. She feels him, stiff, against her backside. She bites her lip.

"What's this?" she says, testing him.

"This?"

"Yeah."

He grins, leans into her, his lips brushing her earlobe. "This is me," he whispers, "about to fuck you against a wall."

A wave of feeling, of sensitivity, rushes through her, and pools between her legs.

"Yeah?" she asks, knowing his answer already, but wanting to hear his voice again.

"Mm-hmmm."

He reaches up and takes hold of her hand, then listens to her moan softly as he slowly, inch by inch, penetrates her willing body.

His stance wide, his legs apart, he holds her and thrusts inside her gently. She reaches back and feels the smooth skin and toned muscles of his ass, feels how he tightens with each stroke. She whimpers as his hips start to churn, his sex swirling as he moves. He's eager to hit the one spot that instantly makes her surrender to him. Enveloped in the steam, both of them start to sweat, beads trickling down their bodies, mingling their scents, their longing.

"Albert…" she mewls, urging him to continue.

He smiles, bites her shoulder tenderly. "Yeah?" She doesn't answer. He chuckles. "Can't speak?" She moans. His hand dips down, his fingers seeking her. "Mmmm?" She shakes her head, hot and bothered by his goading, by the steam, by the musk of his balls. He presses his moistened cheek against hers. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes…" she sighs.

"Good…"

He thrusts deeper. She gasps, can feel him filling every part of her.

"Oh god…"

"I'm gonna teach you everything I know," he murmurs.

"Yes…"

"Would you like that?"

"Yes…"

"Mm-hmmm?"

She arches her back, her arms slide higher up on the tiled wall. He reaches up and pins both her wrists with one of his hands. "You're safe with me," he says softly.

"Safe…"

"I won't let anyone hurt you…"

She starts to swell. The condensation on the tiles causes her hands to slip, but he holds them there and doesn't let her go. "You're mine, Rebecca," he whispers, trying hard not to come yet, but losing the fight. "You'll always be mine."

"Yeah…" she agrees, succumbing to his hands, his cock, his voice.

"Always…"

"Yes…"

"Don't leave me…"

"I won't…"

"Promise me…"

"I promise…"

"Oh fuck… fuck…"

He mouths something he can't let her hear, then, his body trembling with pent up desire, he releases himself deep within her. He groans mercifully, his voice echoing throughout the room. It's not too long before she comes too, in the palm of his skilled and commanding hand, with a moan that's just as desperate, just as grateful.

He pulls out as slowly as he entered her, kissing the back of her neck as he withdraws. Her heart still pounding, she lets him hold her, listens to his breathing return to normal. They sigh, murmur things to each other, words that translate into nothing, but leave a feeling behind, like a delicate caress.

She's afraid to speak, afraid of breaking this beautiful spell.

She doesn't know it, but he's just as terrified.


	2. Chapter 2

**Six**

Claire decides that there's no way Leon will go through with it. Her decision, however, doesn't keep her from driving any slower.

Claire is speeding through the night in her Mustang. She doesn't know when Leon left her; she was still out cold. His words, vicious, defending, are echoing in her ears. If he takes this away from her, despite what it is and the harm it will do, she'll never speak to him again. Maybe that's why he did what he did. Maybe, among the baggage, there's still a place for her in his heart.

The streets are deserted. Claire thought there would be more people milling about. It isn't that late, though the sky went black a few hours ago. Used newspapers, crumpled and tossed away, litter the streets, find their place in the gutters with empty fast food soda cups and straws. The garbage stirs when the Mustang zooms by, settles in the car's wake. The city is a ghost town; the only sound that can be heard for miles is the sound of Claire's engine, the squeal of her tires on the rain-slicked concrete. She's running out of time.

She picks up her mobile phone and dials Leon's number. It rings four, five, six times; then his answering machine picks up. "Hi, you've reached Leon… uhm… Leave a message, and I'll…" Claire curses and pushes the flash button, and the call is disconnected. She's heard his voice mail a million times tonight, but keeps calling him, hoping that he'll have a change of heart. Of course, he won't pick up. She realizes why she hates using her cell for calls of this nature. She can't feel the satisfaction of slamming down a receiver. At this moment, she would give anything to slam her fist into something, or someone.

Leon. Or…

She knows why he's doing this. He's angry, there's no doubt about that. This is a part of her past that's hers alone; he doesn't understand it, and it tears him up. Claire is someone he knew in Raccoon, all those years ago; and though he kept tabs on her through the years to see how she was doing, to him she would always know what she knew then, not what she knows now. To him the answer to the current situation is simple, logical. But she's the only one who truly knows how it all happened; she was the one in Antarctica fighting for her life, and she should be the one to make the rules. Unfortunately, Leon doesn't feel the same way. He wants to protect her, doesn't believe she's thinking clearly.

Their roles have reversed.

Claire makes a sharp left and pulls up in front of the junkyard. The road here isn't paved; it's made up of rocks and gravel that crunch beneath her tires. She keeps her eyes open, searching for Leon's imposing silhouette. Someone has lit a fire in an oil drum. The orange glow is easily seen in the darkness. Claire steers the Mustang towards the flames. There's no sign of him anywhere, or anyone else. She stops the car, throws on the emergency brake, and grabs the pistol that's lying on the passenger seat. Two other guns, Magnums, are holstered beneath her jean jacket. She made sure she was prepared, and will shoot if necessary.

No matter who's in her way.

The cold air hits her face abruptly, causing her to swallow hard. Her eyes tear to keep from drying out as the wind picks up; the tears spill over her cheeks, but she doesn't bother to wipe them away. She has to find Leon, and knows that when she does she'll probably start crying anyway. There's no need to save face. These past few weeks he's seen almost every side of her there is, even the sides she keeps hidden away; and though he might not know all of her past, he understands her. They're more similar than she thinks.

Which is why he feels he has to do this.

Claire's boots hit the gravel with each heavy step she takes. Her heart is pounding in her ears, and her breath quickens. She can hear voices now, low and confrontational, somewhere close by. She stops, clutching the pistol tightly in her hand, and listens. Her fingers are turning red from the cold, but her knuckles are white. Suddenly she recognizes one of the voices: Leon. Her stomach leaps into her throat, and a wave of panic washes over her. Then the adrenaline hits her, and she starts to run.

All of this has come out of left field. She thought that part of her past was over, despite the hints, the evidence; despite her foe. But it's back with a vengeance. It hurts, but she can't help it. It's bad, but she has no other choice. No matter how impassioned her plea, Leon refused to listen. She can hear him talking now, recognizes the low, threatening tone. She knows the weapons he's carrying, knows how dangerous he can be. This is when the real tears start to fall. This is when the sob forms, somewhere deep in her heart, and when it starts to build in her chest, in her head. She's begging him for mercy before she sees him, standing in the fire light with shotgun levelled, with blue eyes blazing.

"LEON, NO!" she screams.

He pulls the trigger.

 **Seven**

Annette was the only one who wore skirts.

That was what he noticed first about her. All the other female scientists wore pants and flat-soled shoes. They kept their hair short, because it was easier to keep off their faces and out of their eyes, and they didn't wear makeup. All of them, it seemed, had something to prove to their fellow male scientists, and came off as boorish. But Annette wore a skirt from time to time. Her hair was longer and always smelled like apples, and she wore a light shade of pink lip gloss every day. No matter what the situation, she was always composed and focused. He loved her voice.

That night they both chose to work late. Their stations were in the same part of the facility, on opposite tables. He often stayed late to finish experiments, and for the past couple of weeks noticed that she, too, remained after hours to work on something. At first they didn't speak to each other, choosing rather to put their energies into their own projects. But a month prior, she finally broke the ice. Their friendly banter continued from that point on.

"Do you know Maureen's on Plimpton St.?" she asked.

"Yeah, I know that place. I've never been in."

"I went the other day. You know what? They have the best sandwiches. I was surprised. I brought one for lunch today, and it was so good."

"Really?" he said. He turned away from her, partially to put the test tube down, and partially because he didn't want her to see the grin that was forming on his face.

"Yeah. I think I'm gonna go there to get my lunch from now on."

"You can't make your own sandwiches?"

Annette smiled at the back of his head.

"They're damn good sandwiches, Will."

She was intimidated by him the first time she met him. He was so young, and had achieved goals most of the other scientists could only dream of. He was fiercely intelligent, often came off as arrogant. But when he was away from everyone, when it was just the two of them alone in the lab, his demeanour softened. He laughed more. His voice was gentle. He was almost shy. Annette stole glances at him when he was peering through his beloved microscope. She loved the way his hair shone beneath the recessed lights. He tried not to look her in the eye, but when he did, she couldn't help but feel special.

"That's a first," he said.

"What's a first?"

"You never call me Will. You always call me Dr. Birkin."

She blushed, turned away just as he was turning to face her.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I like it."

"I shouldn't be so informal."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I just shouldn't, that's all."

William watched her put away some of her instruments.

"I like being called by my first name."

She chuckled.

"You?"

He paused, confused.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She saw him looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

"No one calls you 'Will'. Not you."

He picked up a clip board and held it in front of him, as if he was holding a shield.

"You can call me Will."

Something in his voice made her turn to face him. Their eyes met. "Or William," he said. "But Will's better. Just don't call me 'Billy'."

They smiled. Annette nodded.

"Okay."

They continued to work. Occasionally he leaned over her shoulder and took a peak at what she was doing. She always held her breath when he came close. She was afraid he'd criticize her, though he never did. Instead, he offered her suggestions, as if he truly wanted her to improve. It was a far cry from the Dr. Birkin she knew outside these hours, the doctor who never failed to point out the mistakes of others. He didn't care if he offended the other scientists. Sometimes she feared he would turn on her, but he didn't. Still, she held her breath. He never wore cologne, but when he was close she could smell his skin. It never failed to make her weak in the knees.

"What do you think?" she asked, holding up her notes.

He strolled over to her, took her papers, and held them up to read. She took a step back, giving him space.

"Very well done," he said, nodding. "Very well done. You might want to research that one argument a little more before you turn it in," he pointed to a note on the page, "just to make sure. Other than that, I think it's good."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

She smiled, took the papers from him when he handed them to her again. Her pinkie brushed his thumb. She shivered, then peered into her microscope, afraid to look at him for fear he'd see how hard she was blushing. "Let me see what you've got there," he said. She moved out of the way, put both hands on the table next to the microscope, and he leaned over to look at the sample she was studying. He looked for a long time, analyzing every little detail, and put his hands down on the table to steady himself. Annette looked at her notes to keep from staring at him. Her heart stopped when she felt his fingers find hers, when he started to stroke her skin delicately.

"Annette?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you ever feel like… you're sick of this… and you just want to…"

He turned his head, and their eyes met. "… feel normal?"

"Yeah," she nodded, almost out of breath.

"Me too," he said. "I want to feel something… other than this…"

"Like what?"

He looked at her, curious.

"You're turning blue, you know."

Annette released the breath she was holding.

"Sorry," she said as he straightened up.

"For what?"

"I'm nervous."

He stepped close to her, cupped her face in his hands. She looked down.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"You make me nervous."

He tucked some of her hair behind her ear.

"Don't think I'm a jerk," he said.

She smiled.

"Huh?"

"I need you. I need to feel something… good…"

She closed her eyes as their foreheads touched.

"Me too."

"I wanna touch you…"

"Me too…"

His hips pressed against her, held her against the table.

"You know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"It's been so long since I felt… skin…soft skin…"

She stifled a whimper.

"Will?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you hard?"

"Yeah."

He took her hand, brought it down, pressed it over his stiffening sex and held it there. He moved his lips to her ear. "Feel that?"

She nodded.

"Yeah."

"I want you," he confessed.

"Me too."

"Are you wet?"

"Yeah."

"I wanna fuck you."

"Me too…"

Her fingers moved, and she stroked him through his pants. He encouraged her to continue, let out a deep sigh. She opened her eyes and saw him lick and bite his bottom lip. "You're so hard…" she murmured, feeling his length, his girth. He reached down, slid his hand up the back of her thigh, beneath her skirt.

"I've gotta fuck you…"

"You've got such a big cock, doctor…"

"… or I'm gonna lose it…"

His hands found her ass, felt her skin. He grinned, his eyes closed. "I didn't think you could talk like that," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like a slut."

They both smiled, both chuckled.

"Maybe I am a slut…"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe I want you to fuck me like a slut…"

Their breathing grew heavy.

"Yeah? How's that?"

"Rough," she said, squeezing him.

"That's why you wore the skirt?"

"Yeah…"

"So I could pull it up…"

"Yeah…"

"… and fuck you right here?"

"Right here… fuck me right here, doctor…"

He reached for his belt, unbuckled it, held her tight against his chest.

"How long have you wanted this?" he asked.

"A long time."

"Me too…"

"Ever since I met you…"

"Me too… Annette…"

"Kiss me, Will…"

He caught her lips in his, kissed her ferociously. She felt his arms close around her. He lifted her onto the table, pulled the crotch of her panties aside, giving himself access.

"This place makes you crazy," he said, touching her skin, feeling her dampness.

"Yeah…"

"I wanna crawl up inside you…"

"Yes…"

"… and never leave…"

"William…"

He angled her on the table, forced her thighs apart.

"You're the only beautiful thing here…"

"Fuck me, William…"

"… I'm gonna fuck your brains out…"

She nearly fainted when he finally drove himself into her.

They forgot about everything; the decorum, the professionalism, the unspoken rules. They thrashed against each other, still clothed, hands in each others' hair, lips parted, breathing more and more deeply the harder they fucked. When she slipped he wrapped his arm around her hips and drew her close to him again. She had never felt anyone move the way he moved, with such shamelessness, such intensity. He lifted one of her legs, put it over his shoulder, pinned her against the cold metal table, and watched himself glide in and out of her. She leaned back and whimpered, grabbed onto his lab coat to keep from slipping away from him. He moaned gratefully and thrust violently. "Fuck me, you hot bitch…" he hissed.

"Harder, baby…"

He obeyed, gave her everything he had. She cried out. He smiled.

"Does that hurt?"

"Harder…"

"Am I hurting you?"

"Make it hurt…"

"Yeah?"

"Make it hurt, doctor…"

He chuckled breathlessly.

"Shit…" he whispered.

"Hit me."

"Huh?"

"Hit me…"

He opened his mouth, kissed her, buried his face in her neck. "Hit me, Will," she whimpered.

"Where?"

"In the face."

"You like that?"

"Yes."

He straightened up, felt himself losing control. "Hit me, Doctor Birkin…" she pleaded.

His legs started to shake. "Hit me, Doctor Birkin, please…"

He raised his hand, slapped her cheek. She moaned thankfully. "Do it again…" He slapped her again. "Do it again…"

"I'll bruise you," he growled in her ear.

"Please…"

He pulled away and backhanded her as hard as he could. She didn't make a sound. Instead, her mouth opened, her eyes closed, and he felt her seize up and clinch around him fervently. Her fingers clutched the collar of his lab coat, her chest heaved. She looked beautiful and helpless. He came as hard as she did.

He stayed inside her, panting while she stroked his hair. He pressed his cheek against hers, felt her skin grow hot from his blow. He ran one hand up and down her back, another over the silky skin of her thigh. "I think I love you Annette," he murmured.

"Me too," she sighed.

"We can't tell anyone about this…"

"I won't…"

He raised his head, kissed her gently.

"Don't tell anyone," he whispered. "Especially Wes."

"I won't…"

He smiled, relieved.

"God you're beautiful," he sighed, his breathing still heavy, still uneven. "You're so… fucking… beautiful…"

 **Eight**

 _His name was John._

 _Despite everything, I still remember him._

Ada is writing a letter to Leon. She's not going to send it. She's writing it between the pages of her journal, with a ball point pen that keeps conking out on her. The rain is falling in sheets against the glass windows of a nearly empty Chicago diner. She's not wearing any makeup. It's a good thing, too. She keeps rubbing her eyes and biting her lips. Her skin is clammy. She hasn't slept in a few days. She's waiting for her appointment to show.

 _He trusted me wholeheartedly. Considering his line of work, that's a pretty remarkable thought. It's funny, isn't it? How someone surrounded by that kind of evil can still fall in love. And he did love me. He told me so, every day._

Ada hasn't seen Leon in a few weeks, but it feels much longer than that. Since their night on the pier, when he chose her over the demands of his superiors, she's counted the minutes they've been apart. But she won't let him know that. It's best to drift in and out of his life like a breeze. She thinks it will spare him if something happens to her. He's not the same man who once tried to hold her up and keep her from falling, despite exhaustion and a bullet in the shoulder. She knows this. She can still hear his earnest voice pleading with her to hold on. It's been years, but she can't shake the image. To her, it'll always be his first day on the force.

 _I got close to him the only way I know how – by lying. It wasn't difficult to figure out what made him tick. He was a pretty simple guy. He wanted a wife and kids and a white picket fence. Part of me wanted those things too. I've learned the best kind of lie is one you'd believe yourself if your circumstances were different. Did I lie to you, Leon? I don't remember. I think I just avoided telling you the truth._

 _There I go, trying to justify it._

Ada shakes her pen, tries to get the ink down into the tip again. The sky lights up briefly as lightening strikes somewhere in the distance. Then it's dark again. The waitress comes by with a freshly brewed pot of coffee and refills her cup. She's supposed to charge for refills, but there's something about this fragile looking thing huddled in a booth with a pen in hand that moves her. Ada is still nursing bruises from her run-in with her former associates. The waitress thinks she's a battered wife on the run. Enough women have walked through the door at 3:00 am on a Sunday. Especially after the Superbowl.

 _Making love to John was painful. Not because he wasn't any good at it – he was alright for a scientist. Ha. It's because he couldn't tell I wasn't thinking about him. I knew I wouldn't be around forever. I thought of other things, other men, anyone but him. Is that everyone's dirty little secret, or just mine? Everyone wants their lover to think their thoughts are solely about them. Mine aren't. Are yours?_

There isn't enough time to write down everything there is to know when it comes to Leon. He trusted her so quickly, even when the entire city was under siege. Forget police training; basic street smarts should have set off the warning bells in his head. For some reason, though, he let her in. And she betrayed him. Sure, she couldn't shoot him, even when she was brandishing the gun at him. Sure, she gave him a lame excuse for why it ended up that way; but she turned it around, blamed him for what was ultimately her choice. That's the worst part.

 _Like it was so easy. Like seeing you beaten and humiliated for caring about me was something I could do in my sleep. I knew you'd be alright. You're strong. You're a hero, always. That worry – I can turn it off like a switch. I'm good at that. I hope you don't misunderstand. If it's any consolation, it comes back with a vengeance when I least expect it. Just like me._

 _You're too good for me, Leon. You're the best. I think I l -_

Ada's pen runs out of ink. She shakes it again, rolls it between her hands, tries to write the 'o', 'v', and 'e', but it's no use. She drops the pen on the table and puts her head in her hands.

She hasn't always been the best person, but she prays this isn't a sign from above.

 **Nine**

Jill is drunk and looking up at the night sky. Her eyes are bleary; the smoke from the campfire is finally starting to get to them. Living in the city has wiped out her memory of stars, and her past has rid her of affection for the word. She's trying to build some positive association, but it's difficult to do through the haze of booze. She doesn't want to fall asleep yet. She wants to make this moment last.

Beside her, Chris is lying on his back and murmuring the lyrics to his favourite songs. He's as intoxicated as Jill is. His clothes are covered in dirt from stumbling around in the bushes, looking for a suitable place to pee. He's gone through most of Led Zeppelin's canon already; currently he's on "Whole Lotta Love". When he can't remember a lyric, he substitutes others, makes things up. It makes Jill giggle.

"You need coolin'… baby, I'm not foolin'…"

"Worst Zeppelin song ever," she mutters.

"I'm gonna send you… back to schoolin'… way down inside… Jilly, you need love…"

He looks over at her; his eyes are glazed over, his smile enormous. He starts to serenade her. "I wanna give you my love… I wanna give you my love… Oh!... Wanna whole lotta love?"

Jill puts her hand on his face.

"Shut up, seriously, you suck."

"You love my music, baby," he tells her. "It gives you the shivers. Way down inside. Honey, you need love… I wanna give you my love…"

"I don't want your ugly love," Jill laughs.

"My love is real, though, Jilly." They look at each other. His face grows solemn. "Holy shit, I'm drunk," he confesses.

"Me too. I like it," she says.

"Me too."

Jill is the one who suggested they camp. Leon finally got in touch with them and told them where the rendezvous point is. It will take them a couple of days to drive out there. Jill wasn't upset in the least. She hasn't been camping in a long time, hasn't fried bacon on an open flame or toasted marshmallows in years. The days have seemed longer, only because they've been caught in a state of limbo for weeks. Without a task to perform, without a job to do, she starts to get antsy. It's a side effect, she thinks, from having a job that requires you to fight insurmountable evil. Not that it's really her job; that was the good thing about working for Hollum – she always got a paycheque at the end of the week. She knows now that it was the only good thing about working for him.

Chris shifts uncomfortably on his sleeping bag. He's never been a big fan of camping, but he didn't want to disappoint Jill. Chris came up with the idea of getting hammered. He figured it's the last time they can get completely smashed before they dive back into things. The more he thinks about what awaits them when they meet up with Claire and Leon again, the more he drinks. They've polished off two six packs so far.

"You been learnin'… baby I been learnin'… all those good times baby, baby, I been yearnin'…"

"You have to stop now," Jill chuckles happily.

"Why?"

"You're ruining the romance."

"Oh! Oh… we've got romance here!" Chris arches his back to stretch. Jill watches his hips rock forward and bites her lip. "We've got romance… we've got lovin'… kiss me Jilly," he says suddenly, turning over and smothering her with his chest.

"Get the fuck off me!" her muffled voice comes from beneath him.

"Come on baby, I love you!" he laughs. They start to wrestle.

"You suck!" she shrieks.

"You like it!"

She reaches beneath his shirt and starts to tickle him. He instantly releases her and curls up into a ball next to her sleeping bag, laughing and trying to block her poking fingers.

"What? What? You like it!" Jill goads.

"I give up!"

"What's that?"

"Uncle!"

"Uncle Who?"

"Uncle Get-the-Fuck-Off-Me!" he sniggers.

"I don't know that Uncle!"

"Come on Jilly, please!"

She stops. He collapses on his sleeping bag, still chortling. He looks up at her. Her hair is a mess. "Where's your hat, Jilly?" he asks.

"I don't wear the hat anymore."

"I liked that hat."

"Yeah, I know."

He reaches up and strokes her cheek.

"You look good," he whispers.

"So do you," she answers.

The look on Chris' face as Jill removes her shirt is priceless. It's one of the things she loves most about him. He always looks like he's seeing her naked for the first time, as if it happened by wonderful, happy accident, and that he can't believe how amazing she looks. It never fails to make her feel special. When she dips down to kiss him, he closes his eyes and lets her lips roam over his. He puts a hand on her back when she settles down on top of him; the length of her body nestles against his. She's the one who removes his shirt, his pants, his shorts, and he's more than willing for her to be the aggressor. She rewards him by making a show of it, keeping her eyes locked on his, a small and mischievous grin on her face. But that smile fades when he turns her over and she feels his smooth skin against hers. There's no need to be coy when she's safe in his arms; he loves her, and she knows it.

Chris has always been a quiet lover. He never says anything to her; he simply enjoys the moment for what it is, a moment filled with her. He never gets enough of her skin. His hands move constantly, stroke her back and shoulders, smooth through her hair. Tonight, wrapped in his sleeping bag, they find her ass and squeeze her gently. When she takes him in he lets out a long, contented sigh. His eyes close, his lips part, and his chin tilts up, exposing his throat. She sits on top of him, and when he opens his eyes again he's mesmerized by her face and the stars behind her head. He nods his approval, and she lets out a blissful giggle. The sleeping bag falls away, and the two of them are bared to the dry summer air, but they don't stop. Chris' strong arms envelop her, and her legs wrap around him, tighten with every smooth thrust. Skin against skin, lips and hands everywhere, he takes her. And all the while she moans, or sighs, or grunts, or whispers, "Chris…"

When he comes she can feel it throughout her body. He quivers when he achieves his release and claws at her with roughened hands, but it doesn't hurt. He slides one arm beneath her and lifts her up against him, and she puts both arms around him, buries her face in his neck, and listens to his voice. It seems as if she's there an eternity, pressed to his naked chest, glowing with sweat. When his passion subsides, he gingerly lays her back down and slides next to her, settling in the nook of her body. He won't leave her unsatisfied; he licks his fingers and slips them inside her; he strokes, and brings her over the edge.

"Hey drunk boy," she sighs.

"Hey lushy," he replies and kisses her.

"You got moves."

"I got moves."

"I like your moves."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh."

He shifts his embrace, his hands roam over her.

"I think I love you, Chilly Jilly…" he says reverently, as if she's still unattainable and he's taking the biggest of risks.

Jill, touched, puts her hand through his hair.

"I think I love you too."

They're quiet for a while, still drunk, still ecstatic.

"Hey Jilly?"

"Yeah?"

"Wanna know something?"

"Sure."

"Look down."

She does, then starts to laugh. "Oh yeah!" he proudly admits. "I kept my boots on!"

"Oh Jeez..!"

"That's Zeppelin, baby!"

He starts to sing the opening guitar riff of "Whole Lotta Love". Jill is laughing so hard, she can't catch her breath.

The stars blur.

 **Ten**

Billy is having trouble keeping Rebecca in his sights. She constantly changes her path, weaves between buildings, dodges pools of light. If he wasn't so used to doing the same thing he'd find tracking her down almost impossible. It's obviously a new skill she's acquired. He chuckles; this kind of talent would have been handy back then. Instead, he had to come to her rescue. Now it looks like she can take care of herself. He can't tell whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Billy doesn't know exactly how late it is. The sky is pitch black; the only illumination comes from naked bulbs in dimly lit back alleys, and neon lights advertising the names of German clubs. The soundtrack of the night is a blend of pounding heavy and thrash metal music. It's muted by thick walls. Billy is getting sweaty, despite the subzero temperatures. He's moving too fast to really notice it, but the moment he stops, he's going to be very uncomfortable.

Unless Rebecca is willing to give him a hug after all these years.

He watches as she deftly climbs over a large garbage bin that's blocking her path, then curses under his breath. There's no way he can follow her this way; she'll hear his boots echo on the metal, might think he's an enemy. Which, of sorts, he is. He has to figure out a way of approaching her that shows he's on her side. He has to be ready to negotiate, and doesn't know how to do it, if he can do it at all. Billy never thought he'd be in this predicament with Rebecca. Months passed, sometimes entire years, but she always welcomed him back with open arms, even when she knew they only had a couple of hours to spend together. Circumstances being what they are, he has no idea if she'll recognize him, or remember him. He's kicking himself, even though it's not his fault. He does it a lot.

Billy switches paths and decides to take an adjacent alley way, hoping he can cut her off. He's starting to get winded. She's faster, lighter on her feet than he is. She also has the luxury of knowing where she's headed. Billy has to content himself with following behind, in the shadows. He wonders, if she's been trained so thoroughly, what else she's capable of now. It's difficult to picture her harming anyone, but it would be stupid now to put it past her. She could turn around and shoot at any moment. Who's to say she's unaware that someone's pursuing her? Who's to say she doesn't know it's him?

Billy emerges from the alley way and looks around, listens intently for the sound of her footsteps drumming steadily on the pavement. Nothing. It's obvious he's lost her. He pushes his hands roughly through his hair, trying to ease the tension that's built in his head. "Shit!" he hisses. It's not the first time he's failed to catch up with her. It's the fact that he has to approach her with caution that's throwing him off. Things are different. She's different. It's like starting over again. With a twist.

Frustrated, he leans against a brick wall and closes his eyes.

Someone jams a gun under his chin.

 _Fuck… this just isn't my night…_

Billy slowly opens his eyes. Whoever has him at gunpoint is standing off to the side. In his peripheral vision, Billy can tell it's a man. He's wearing cologne. "Mr. Coen, I presume?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I'm familiar with your work," is the flat response.

"Who the hell are you?" Billy mutters.

"Wesker."

Billy rolls his eyes. _This REALLY isn't my night._

"You seem to be quite taken with my ward, Mr. Coen," he says, his voice low and menacing.

"What have you done to Rebecca?"

Wesker pushes the gun higher, lifting Billy's chin. Billy winces. He expects his aggressor to say something, to threaten him. Instead, Wesker stays silent and glares at him. He's been thinking about this moment for a very long time.

Billy wants to get a good look at this guy, but he can't turn his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he can discern Wesker's smooth profile and dark glasses. Billy can tell when he's being sized up. He can't see the gun, but he doesn't have to. He knows the stakes; one shot, and he's out of commission. It doesn't stop him from speaking again. "Is she working for you now?"

"Listen to me, Coen," Wesker growls, ignoring the question. "I'm only going to say this once. You stay away from her. If I find you within fifty feet of her I'll kill you."

"Why don't you kill me now?" Billy says angrily through clenched teeth.

"That's not your concern. You so much as look at her and I'll make sure you suffer."

"I'm not leaving the country without her," Billy says, defiant. "We better settle this here."

Wesker smiles at him menacingly.

"My apologies, Mr. Coen. I prefer to pick on someone my own size."

He pulls back his fist and slams it into the side of Billy's head. Billy lets out a grunt, then loses consciousness and slumps against the wall, crumpling at Wesker's feet.

Wesker stands over Billy, takes a good look at him. The years on the run have weathered him slightly; his hair is shorter. He's kept in shape. Wesker can see why Rebecca was so taken with him. A sobered feeling comes over him when he finally takes the time to make the connection.

Here, on the pavement before him, is the one man who can destroy everything.

And he has to make the decision now, before Rebecca starts to wonder where he is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Eleven**

 _Two six year old boys were playing with rocks in the yard. The ground was muddy from a recent rainfall; several puddles had formed. The dark-haired boy had suggested the game of skipping stones on the surface of the water to see whose would go the furthest, and his throws were pretty good; he even added a turn here and there to show off. The other boy, whose hair was fine and pale blonde, didn't have the same finesse, but he could throw farther. They lost track of time and flung the pebbles for hours, all the while chattering away happily to each other. They were careful not to get the cuffs of their pants dirty._

 _They knew it wouldn't be tolerated._

 _They should have stopped earlier. They should have kept an ear open. It was always the same thing; as soon as they were on the verge of having fun, they'd have to put an end to the game. But they forgot that unspoken rule. So when the booming voice of the headmaster rang out from the back porch of the orphanage, their hearts leapt up into their throats. They turned quickly and saw him standing there, glowering at them with beady, cloudy-blue eyes. He told them to stay where they were, and marched off the porch towards them. Other children poked their heads out of the door in curiosity. They wanted to watch the two boys get it. It wasn't because they were cruel. They simply wanted to be certain it was the boys that were going to be beaten, not them._

 _The headmaster slapped the pebbles out of the boys' hands and asked them if they knew what time it was. They shook their heads, and the headmaster told them it was time for their dinner. He told them that they had wasted food, and if they didn't want to eat he would gladly spare the expense. The boys' stomachs immediately started rumbling. They were having so much fun they didn't notice they were hungry. Now they were convinced they wouldn't be allowed to eat for at least another day. Their suspicions were confirmed by the headmaster. He asked whose idea it was to play with pebbles in the mud._

 _The dark-haired boy stifled a whimper._

 _The blonde boy raised his hand._

 _The headmaster nodded and told the boy he knew it all along. If he liked playing in the mud that much, the headmaster said, he'd be happy to oblige him._

 _Then the children closed their eyes, and the headmaster pulled back and punched the six year old in the stomach so hard, it knocked the wind out of him._

 _The boy fell backwards and landed in the puddle, gasping for breath. In a moment, the headmaster was down in the mud with him. He grabbed the boy by the back of the neck and held him beneath the water, shoving his face into the mud at the bottom of the puddle. The boy struggled under his grip, his eyes and mouth shut tight to keep out the sludge. He was suffocating, and his instincts kicked in; he felt a spasm in his chest and breathed in, felt the water filling his lungs. When he thought for certain he would drown, the headmaster pulled him up again and tossed him aside as if he were a rag doll. The boy coughed and retched in the muck, his limbs shivering with cold and fear. The headmaster told him to get used to the cold; the child's punishment would be to wear the wet and filthy clothes to bed._

 _Throughout it all, the dark-haired boy said nothing._

 _The next day, after Albert had been given a bath and was dressed in clean clothes, he sought out his friend to see if he had fared better. The dark-haired boy was sitting with two others, talking quietly. Albert said hello. The others looked up at him, but said nothing._

 _The dark-haired boy, however, didn't even bother to look._

 _Albert couldn't understand what he had done wrong._

 _He went and sat in the windowsill, and stared out at the yard for the rest of the afternoon._

 **Twelve**

Leon is standing in the compound's kitchen. He's searching through the refrigerator for something to eat. The refrigerator is an ugly mustard yellow colour, a model from the 1980s for sure. It makes a weird rattling noise whenever the Freon is circulated; still, it's clean. He and Claire stopped off at a 7-11 to stock up on cheap supplies. The cashier must have thought they were crazy; they practically cleared the place out. They can't afford to keep making trips back and forth. Someone might see them. Now the cupboards are lined with tinned and boxed food: soup, tuna, beans, vegetables, fruit cocktail, macaroni and cheese, uncooked pasta and rice. It's home-for-lunch food, Leon thinks. He used to eat this stuff when he was too sick to go to school. The habit was broken when he started training to become a cop.

They can't eat this way forever, but they'll have to, for now anyway.

Leon takes out a bottle of lemonade, opens it, and takes a swig. The sugar will keep him satisfied until he makes up his mind. He considers finding Claire, to ask her if she wants anything, since she helped him carry it all back. She got up and left right after the meeting; he thinks she's gone back to her room. She's probably hungry. They drove all day to make sure they got here before nightfall. They only thing he saw her consume was a bagel and a cup of coffee from a donut shop. Leon was embarrassed, eating so often in front of her when she hardly touched a thing. Someone his size has to eat every three hours. Claire's lost a lot of weight.

Leon closes the refrigerator door and leans against it. He's holding the bottle of lemonade and staring at the floor. He keeps his eyes open; the tiles start to blur. He tries to make a game out of it, seeing how long he can go without blinking, how warped the tiles will look as his eyes glaze over. He tries to empty his head, but he can't stop thinking about Claire. For the past couple of weeks, she's been acting differently. She's always tense, always anxious. She'll blame it on something insignificant - traffic, maybe, or a lack of sleep. He can tell there's something more to it than that. After the initial awkwardness of their flight, they settled into a comfortable friendship. It's something he's never had with her before, despite their past. They've developed a way of talking to each other, a sense of humour that other people might not get. They have running jokes now, and memories that are actually pleasant. It's nice. But there was one thing about Leon, one single thing about him that no one knew, not even Ada. It's the one thing he's ashamed of most, and he's kept it hidden from everyone. There are moments that he's paranoid someone can see it under his skin. It's a secret that keeps him on his toes.

Last night, he told Claire what it is.

Claire's a very good listener.

That's why he's worried about her now.

Leon rubs his eyes and tries to think of something to eat. He can't go prying into Claire's affairs now. It's late, and whatever's been eating away at her won't be shared so easily, not even with him. It's been too long a day to drag it late into the night. Leon decides to make an instant ramen noodle bowl when the kitchen door opens. Leon looks up. Chris is marching towards him. Leon tenses up; he doesn't say anything.

"Hey," Chris says brusquely.

"Hey."

"What's up with my sister?" he asks.

"I don't know," Leon sighs. "She's been that way for a while. I haven't asked her yet."

"Yeah?" Chris says. "And you don't have any idea what's wrong, do you?"

Leon recognizes the tone in his voice.

"No," he replies, flat, ready.

"No," Chris echoes.

It's clear he doesn't believe him.

Chris strolls over to the cupboards and starts to open and close them, checking out what Leon bought at the 7-11. Leon watches him, his eyes narrowed. He's waiting for Chris to continue with his questioning. His fingers squeeze the lemonade bottle. Tonight, he's not in the mood to spar with anyone. He's too concerned with Claire. He should know better by now. "Where'd you find this place?" Chris asks, shifting the boxes of food around on the shelves.

"It's an old lookout post," Leon answers. "It's been abandoned for about ten years."

"No chance of anyone finding us then, huh?"

"There's always a chance."

"Yeah, but you took some extra precautions to make sure that doesn't happen, right?" Chris has a smile on his face. Leon recognizes the smile too.

This is the calm before the storm.

"We won't be here long enough for someone to discover us, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Oh no? Where are we gonna be after this?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"You haven't decided yet?"

Leon puts the cap back on the bottle.

"You want my help or not? I know these places like the back of my hand."

"All the ins and outs, right?"

Leon's fed up.

"What's your problem, Redfield? Spit it out."

Chris closes the cupboard abruptly and glares at him.

"I'll tell you what my fucking problem is," he says. "My sister spends a couple of weeks with you and the next time I see her I barely recognize her. That's my fucking problem."

"I told you, I don't know what's wrong."

"See, I think you do. I think you do and you just don't wanna say anything."

Leon steps away from the refrigerator. He's glad Claire isn't around to see this.

"The fuck does that mean?"

"It means if I find out you touched my sister I'll beat the shit out of you," Chris says bluntly.

"I didn't touch your sister," Leon replies. His hands are getting sweaty. He clenches them into fists.

"Why's she like that, then?"

"I have no idea."

They glare at each other for a while.

"Said hi to Ada lately?" Chris asks.

"You're asking for it," Leon growls.

"Hey, I just wanted to know if you've seen her lately. She's working with us now, right?"

"I haven't been in touch with her."

"So maybe you're lonely," Chris says. His face is getting red.

Leon calls him on it.

"Maybe I am."

Chris nods.

"And maybe you're the type to go chasing tail from time to..."

Leon cuts him off.

"Listen to me, you Army piece of shit!" he snaps.

"You're not fooling me, pretty boy," Chris replies, his voice low, threatening. "I know all about you. If I find out you've fucked with my sister..."

Leon grabs Chris by the collar.

Chris grabs his wrist and raises a fist.

"Chris?"

They turn.

Jill is standing in the doorway. She's not amused.

Or surprised.

Leon smirks.

"Your girlfriend wants you," he says, releasing Chris' collar.

It takes everything Chris has to keep quiet. He lowers his hand, shakes Leon off, and heads for the door. When he passes Jill, he winks at her. A small smile grows on her face.

He's trying.

Encouraged, Leon smiles at Jill.

She shoots him a look - an intimidating look - and leaves.

 **Thirteen**

Rebecca watches, crouched in a corner.

He's tearing the place apart.

Her mind has gone blank. She should take this opportunity to think of what to say, what to do, but she can't. All she can do is watch. He's smashing everything that falls beneath his grasp, hurling things with tremendous violence. He's put his fist in every wall, several times, pulverized the concrete, the drywall, the wooden beams. The floor is made of marble. He's broken through that too. His face terrifies her; his jaw is tight, the corners of his mouth are drawn down in an angry scowl. He hasn't said anything. He refuses to speak.

It used to be a beautiful room. He made sure everything was taken care of before their arrival. It was spotless. Not a single thing was out of place. It amused her to think it was decorated according to his specifications. She thinks, had he stayed here, lived his life in his homeland, that he'd decorate it very much like this. There were statues made out of black onyx, modern paintings displayed on the walls, a basket of fruit on the coffee table that was always filled. She let her mind wander, daydreamed a lot, and didn't have to picture another place, different surroundings. She pictured life here, and it made her happy. The bed was the most impressive. The linens were exquisite, the pillows soft. It was safe.

It won't be safe now.

She puts her arms around herself, presses her lips together. She's shivering. She hears glass shattering and squeezes her eyes shut, but they don't stay closed for long. She has to make sure it's really happening. The more he destroys, the more she finds she can't look away. Nothing is out of harm's way, nothing sacred. He smashes priceless works of art, rips through canvases, obliterates the furniture, the walls, the floor, everything. His aggression is impressive, though she hates to admit it to herself. She's faced unspeakable evil, seen horrors that will always remain with her, have a place in her nightmares.

Nothing comes close to this.

She's trying to decide whether or not she deserves this. He won't stop, won't slow down. More and more of the flat is destroyed, and the good memories go with it. He tears apart the couch they collapsed onto when they first arrived, the couch they curled up on to watch movies. He breaks the record player they used to listen to old vinyl. Rebecca's heart is pounding. There was one thing she wanted, one thing she requested before they arrived. When she told him what it was, he smiled, told her that he thought she'd ask for one. They joked over it. There was affection. Her eyes keep darting over to it. It's the one thing in the room that's causing her to question what she's done the most. It's become a symbol. If he destroys it, she can only guess what it means. She starts to panic as more things are demolished without regard. She breathes faster as he slows down, then turns his head, and looks at it.

"No…" she croaks. "Albert…"

He steps towards it.

"… please Albert…"

His pace quickens.

"… Albert...!"

He raises both fists.

"ALBERT, NO!"

He smashes the piano.

The floodgates open, and Rebecca starts to cry. She brings herself to her knees, leaning forward, too afraid to leave the corner, but still trying to get through to him. No matter how hard she begs, he won't stop. She can't catch her breath. Her cheeks flush a bright red, her fingers dig into her thighs. She can't scream any louder. She starts to choke on her own pleading, retches into the floor. He thrashes through the wood, through the tiny hammers and strings, pounds the piano over and over again, until the rumble dies away and all that's left is dust.

This is what happens when you hurt him.

He stops finally, stands in the centre of what used to be his gift to her. His shoulders rise and fall with every breath he takes. He glares at the floor, at the rubble. Rebecca continues to gasp for breath. Her mind is empty. All she can think of is how miserable she feels. She blames herself, because there's no one else to blame.

"Get over here," he growls.

For a moment, she doesn't move.

He turns his head sharply and looks at her.

She stands up, too numb to do anything other than obey him. She walks over to him, every extremity tingling and cold. She stands in front of him.

"How could you do this to me?" he asks, his voice low, soft.

Rebecca can't answer. She shakes her head.

He chuckles cynically. "You fucking bitch."

He grabs her wrists, lifts her up, and carries her, selfishly, to the bedroom.

 **Fourteen**

 _A donut._

 _He wants a fucking donut._

 _At two-thirty in the morning._

Claire doesn't mind that she's on yet another coffee run for Leon. She can use one herself, in fact. The irritation, for lack of a better term, comes from an affectionate place. Lately she's discovered that Leon has an almost insatiable sweet tooth. If he's not chewing on gum, he's nibbling on liquorice or some other candy. Lucky jerk never gains any weight. She's cracked more than her share of diabetes jokes in the past week. It's become their stand-up routine. The cravings almost always hit him at night. She doesn't mind doing him this favour. He can make it up to her by giving her a massage.

She thought they'd settled in for the night. He was lying comfortably on his bed in the motel. His eyes were closed, one knee was bent. Claire was just about to start her half of the watch when Leon turned his head, caught her gaze. He had a sleepy grin on his face. "Hey."

Claire's heart stopped.

"Hey…" she said.

"Can you do me a favour?"

His voice was soft, a little raspy from the dry air in the room.

"Sure…"

"I'd love a coffee."

Claire smiled.

"You want me to get you a coffee at this hour?"

"Don't you want one?"

"I could go for one, but you're supposed to be sleeping."

"I can't sleep," he said, shifting on the bed and letting out a sigh.

"Coffee's gonna keep you up."

"I can handle it."

"Sure you don't need to enter a twelve-step program?"

He chuckled; his leg fell to the side.

"I was gonna ask you to get me a donut…"

Claire rolled her eyes.

"You want a donut at two in the morning?"

He nodded, his smile grew wider. Claire let out an irritated groan. "Fine, I'll get you a fuckin' donut. What kind do you want?"

"The fuckin' kind," he said, playing on her comment.

"Alright."

"Take my jacket," he told her.

"Thanks," she said. She hid her smile.

The jacket always smells like him. It makes it worth the trip.

Claire steps into the coffee shop. The fluorescent lights overhead make the two cashiers on duty look green. The floor is yellow with age, though polished to a dull shine. A glass display case holds whatever pastries there are left from the morning rush. A radio station is playing over cheap speakers; it keeps fading in and out. It's a small town, so the reception is crappy. Claire steps up to the counter and orders two coffees, as well as a powdered donut filled with strawberry jam. A new pot of coffee has to be brewed. While the girls are getting her order, she smiles to herself. She knows what his favourite kind of donut is; it's a comforting thought. She looks up at the cheap plastic clock mounted on the far wall. It's almost three in the morning. This hour of day always freaks her out a little.

She rubs her cheek against the fuzzy collar of Leon's bomber jacket.

Claire's mind starts to wander. She wonders what he's doing right now, back in the motel. No doubt he's fallen asleep. He's used to sleeping on his back, fully dressed. Claire always thought it was odd. She knows it's safer to sleep in her clothes, in case she's discovered or attacked, but she still can't get used to it. She prefers to put on an oversized t-shirt and boxer shorts. It's odd, sleeping in pyjamas with Leon lying in the next bed over. She feels indecent, even though she's covered up. Part of her wishes he'd get undressed, if only so she'll be less embarrassed. That's what she's told herself, anyway.

Part of her is more than grateful that he doesn't.

Claire knows the growing affection is dangerous. The inner thoughts shared, the hours of talking, the close quarters, it's all going to add up. She's tried to distance herself in the past few weeks. She puts an end to conversations she would love to continue because it's gotten late. She pretends to be distracted by something in the distance to discourage him from looking at her. When she actually attempts these feats, she succeeds. Most of the time, anyway. It's difficult to say 'no' to him, though. He's very charming. She suspects he knows it too. She thinks about the time in the old facility, when she was angry with him. He approached her slowly, held her close, tried to make things better. She could hear him breathing gently. The thought of it now makes her stomach skip. She had a crush on him. But for the wrong reasons.

The cashiers finish her order and hand it to her in a cardboard tray. Claire thanks them and leaves. She doesn't want to step back into the night air; the coffee shop may be a dive, but at least it's warm. It's a good thing a fresh pot was brewed. The coffee won't be too cold when she gets back to the motel. Not that Leon is going to mind anyway. She knows all he really wants is the donut. She zips up Leon's jacket and leaves the shop. The street is practically deserted, save for one truck driver, who's sitting in the front seat of the cab and snoring loudly. Amused, Claire chuckles. She's about to leave when she bumps into someone passing in front of the shop. She didn't see anyone approaching, and it startles her. Their eyes meet briefly, a flash in the pan. The paper bag, containing the donut, falls to the ground. Claire, however, doesn't pick it up.

She knows this person.

 _No… no…_

The young man continues to walk. Suddenly he stops, then turns around.

Claire's face turns pale.

 _Oh god… it can't be…_

The young man smirks at her. "Hey beautiful," he calls. "You dropped something."

Claire can't move, can't speak.

She recognizes him.

"Steve..?" she whispers.

A grin on his face, the young man lowers his chin, but doesn't say anything. Then he turns back, and keeps walking.

 _It's him…_

Claire starts to shake.

 **Fifteen**

 _William and Albert were working. They were always working, it seemed. Their days started early and ended very late, and they hardly ever took breaks. That night, William was playing a cassette tape on a shoddy portable stereo. It was a David Bowie album that he taped off of one of his records. He didn't ask Albert if the music would bother him; he just popped the tape in and pushed play. It was bold of him. It was as if he were asking for it._

 _William started to hum along with one of the tracks. Albert looked up sharply, but didn't say anything. It seemed inappropriate to him, considering the session they had just experienced with 'the woman', but he avoided unnecessary conversation with his partner. Lately, the more he interacted with William, the more irritating he found him. William was easily put in his place in the past. As the weeks wore on, however, he was becoming more and more aggressive. Albert placed the blame squarely on Annette. She had turned into quite the nuisance; always turning up, bringing William this or that. Albert preferred her to make herself scarce._

 _He didn't trust her in the slightest._

 _"I think that's it for me," William said suddenly. He started to pack up._

 _Albert glared at him._

 _"You've barely touched the report."_

 _"I have someplace to be," William told him. "I don't want to be late."_

 _"You're going out?"_

 _"I'm going out."_

 _Albert finished off the sentence he was writing and stood up straight._

 _"With Annette."_

 _"Yes."_

 _"You scheduled a date when you knew this report needed attention?"_

 _William turned around, looked Albert squarely in the face._

 _"Yeah. Is that alright with you, Wes?" he asked, his tone sharp._

 _"Not particularly," Albert said flatly._

 _"And why's that?"_

 _"You know perfectly well why."_

 _Albert returned to his microscope. He didn't catch William's smirk._

 _"Maybe you should consider developing some kind of social life, Wes," William said broadly. Albert didn't look up._

 _"Is that so?"_

 _"You can't be happy sitting around here all day and all night."_

 _"My happiness shouldn't concern you."_

 _"There are new female recruits," William continued. "Some of them are cute. Some of them would do anything just to get ahead at the company."_

 _The comment caught Albert's attention. He put his pen down._

 _"What are you implying?"_

 _"I'm implying you do your part to advance their careers," William said._

 _"Don't be crass."_

 _"Crass," William repeated. He chuckled. "Figures you'd see it as crass."_

 _"Let me tell you something, Will," Albert started. William's back went up. "Your little game with Annette is dangerous. If anyone else were to find out it could have severe consequences for the both of you."_

 _"We might be disciplined."_

 _"If you're lucky, you might be disciplined."_

 _"You're suggesting they might harm me?" William scoffed. "I'm the most important researcher they've got. There's no way they'd lay a hand on me."_

 _"No, of course not," Albert said. "But women like Annette are a dime a dozen. And you and I are both acquainted with one, aren't we? We see her every day."_

 _William squeezed his hands into tight fists._

 _"They won't do to Annette what they do to that woman," he growled._

 _"Who's to say they won't?" Albert asked._

 _"You keep your mouth shut about her."_

 _Albert's gaze narrowed._

 _"You better not be threatening me."_

 _"No one's gonna hurt Annette."_

 _"I'm telling you to be careful. You should thank me."_

 _"Fuck you."_

 _Albert scooted around the table and strode quickly towards William._

 _"You've got a mouth on you tonight," he snapped. "Is there something we need to settle?"_

 _"If anything happens to her I know who to blame."_

 _"I couldn't care less about the two of you. I'm giving you some free advice."_

 _"I don't need your advice."_

 _"Then don't take it," Albert said when he was face to face with his partner._

 _They glared at each other. William's face had turned bright red. Something else was going on, and Albert could tell. "Don't take my advice, and see how far you get. I didn't take you for a gambler, but apparently you're the worst kind."_

 _"Get out of my face."_

 _Albert chuckled._

 _"You're willing to sacrifice your career for a woman?"_

 _"I love her."_

 _"How romantic."_

 _"Haven't you ever loved anyone?" William asked him._

 _"The need for love is a social disease," Albert replied. "There are other things that should be emphasized."_

 _"You say that because no one's ever loved you," William said. "And no one ever will."_

 _As soon as he said the words, Albert pulled back his fist and attempted to knock the grin that crept onto William's face. William brought his arm up and blocked the blow effortlessly; his arm felt as if it were made of steel. Albert stepped back, amused. His suspicions had been confirmed._

 _"So you're a romantic as well as a drug addict," he said. "What a winning combination."_

 _William's smile faded fast._

 _"Don't do this to me," he whispered._

 _"Whatever I do, it can't be worse than what you're doing to yourself."_

 _"She's pregnant, Wes."_

 _Albert stopped and stared at his partner. He didn't expect to hear those words._

 _"You've got to be kidding."_

 _William shook his head. "You can't be serious."_

 _"I've asked her to marry me."_

 _"You're insane."_

 _"I want a family." He looked at his partner in the hopes that Albert, somewhere, would understand why. "I want a life outside of Umbrella. A small one. It won't interfere."_

 _Albert started to laugh._

 _"You're always entertaining, I'll give you that."_

 _"I want to be a husband and a father."_

 _"As well as a brilliant scientist." Albert shook his head. "You know it's one or the other, Will."_

 _"Don't take this away from me, Wes." His voice was soft. He seemed desperate, but ready to strike if necessary, like a caged animal. "Please."_

 _"Don't beg me, Will, I hate when you beg."_

 _"Don't you want those things too?"_

 _"No."_

 _"Don't you want to know what it's like to have someone in your life..." Will's voice was barely audible. He was staring at Albert. A strange look was on his face. He seemed to be searching for something, and praying that it was there, somewhere in Albert's gaze. "...someone who'd do anything for you? Who'd gladly... be your slave?"_

 _Albert grinned devilishly._

 _He stepped up close to William and whispered in his ear, "I already do."_


	4. Chapter 4

**Sixteen**

He looks over at Rebecca. She's slumped in the seat next to him, unconscious. He leans towards her and looks at her neck. He was gentle enough that he didn't bruise her, but firm enough to knock her out cold. Her face looks serene. Her lips are parted. They always are when she's asleep. It's one of the things he finds most endearing about her. Her small hands are lying open on her lap. He wants to lift one to his lips to kiss it, but he doesn't want her to wake up. Not yet. Not until he's thought of something to say.

He looks out the window at the night sky. All he can see are the lights on the plane's wing. It's too dark to see what's below. No doubt they're over the ocean now. The flight to Japan will take them a while. He has one of the fastest planes ever built. Wealth has its advantages. There's a television and DVD player on one side, a well stocked bar fridge, and various other luxuries. The seats are upholstered in expensive velvet, and are large and comfortable. Part of him wants her to wake up, if only so she can see the interior of the craft. He knows she'd like it. The problem is, he doesn't know how she's going to react when she comes to.

He can still feel her delicate neck being squeezed in his capable hands. She yelped, then gasped as all conscious thought faded away. She fell against him, and he caught her before she hit the ground, put her limp body over his shoulder, and ran as fast as he could out the nearest exit. It was quick and painless. He called his air stewards and told them he was on his way. He told them they had to leave as soon as possible, and that he'd quadruple their pay if they were ready within half an hour. No doubt his penthouse was being ransacked as he boarded the plane with Rebecca in his arms. He managed to escape through the only window of opportunity. His stewards didn't ask questions. They knew better. Instead, they did what they were supposed to do. They secured all the arrangements, and made sure he was as comfortable as possible.

He didn't listen to her. She told him she couldn't leave with him, but he didn't take no for an answer. He needed her with him. After everything he's found out about his past, he couldn't just leave her behind when he escaped. He had to take her with him, whether she liked it or not. Despite learning the terrible truth about himself - that he was born and bred to spread misery to everyone around him - he has successfully pushed most of it out of his mind. He thought his past would preoccupy him during the flight. It hasn't. All he can think about is her. He has to prepare himself for the worst.

Rebecca moans softly. He realizes she'll be awake very soon. He calls the pilot on the intercom. "Yes sir."

"See that a meal is prepared for my guest when she wakes up," he says.

"Yes sir."

He turns off the speaker and looks at her again. He's taken her away from her friends for the second time. This time, however, he doesn't have to return her. He can keep her close to him always, as long as he likes. It's a wonderful thought. On a number of occasions, she asked him to stay in bed with her after the excitement had subsided. She wanted to fall asleep in his arms, she told him; she wanted to wake up with him there. But of course, he doesn't sleep, so she was always alone when she opened her eyes again. The opportunity has unwittingly presented itself. He thinks about whether she'll want to sleep with him again. He wonders if she'll forgive him for what he's done.

He wants to ease her back into consciousness, so he removes the glove on his right hand and strokes her hair gently. He thought about tying her up before bringing her onto the plane, to make sure she wouldn't get away, but he couldn't do it. The thought of her waking up restrained and frightened disturbed him. No matter what happens, he doesn't want to scare her or cause her any pain. She still believes he can change. It's naive of her, true, but he finds her hope for the future comforting. She's the only person left who ever cared that much.

For the first time in a while, he thinks of Eunice Johnson.

He thinks of how, ultimately, it's his fault that she's dead now.

Everything he touches turns to dust.

He's terrified the wind will blow Rebecca away too.

She murmurs something as he strokes her head affectionately. "It's alright, dear heart," he says as she opens her eyes. "You're safe." Rebecca squints as her eyes adjust to the light in the cabin. She doesn't say anything. He pets her warily, doesn't know what to do. "I've got a meal on its way for you," is all he can think to tell her. Rebecca looks around. Slowly, she realizes where she is, and what he's done. She looks at him. Her eyes accuse him of unspeakable crimes. "You'll be very comfortable where we're going," he says. "Your every need will be seen to."

"Where are we going?" she asks, her throat dry.

"Japan."

"You're taking me to Japan?"

"Yes."

She looks out the window and thinks about jumping out of the plane. It's a stupid thought. She looks back at him, defeated. "I'm sorry, dear heart. I couldn't leave you behind." Rebecca's head is pounding. Her face slowly sours, and she starts to cry. He reaches out to wipe a tear off her cheek, and she swats his hand away angrily.

"Don't touch me!" she snaps.

He rises from his seat and strolls away from her.

"You have no idea what would have happened to you if you stayed behind," he says. His voice is low, threatening. He's nervous. When he's nervous, he gets angry.

"Neither do you!"

"I've a better idea than you do."

He grits his teeth as Rebecca starts to sob. He can't stand hearing her cry.

"You can't take me away from my friends! You can't take me away from my family!"

"I didn't have a choice."

"You could have left me behind!"

He turns and looks at her. His blood is starting to boil.

"You'd prefer to never see me again, is that it?"

"You can't just take me away!" she wails. "Everything I have is back home!"

"I see. I don't matter to you." He chuckles. "Isn't that funny? I had no idea you were such a skilful liar."

She coughs, swallows hard, tries to catch her breath.

"Don't even try it, Albert!" she growls. "It has nothing to do with that! Only you'd be so selfish! How can you say that to me?"

"I've just saved your life," he says. "You automatically think I'm trying to destroy it."

"You don't own me!" she screams. It sounds cliche, but it's the only true thing she can think of. "I'm not a thing! I'm not an object! I'm a person! You can't just drag me away because you feel like it!"

"I do own you!" he yells. The comment catches her off guard. She stops suddenly, and snivels as he continues. "I do own you! I own every inch of you, every hair on your head! You're mine! You knew right from the beginning what would happen and you did it anyway, you gave every last part of yourself to me!" Her knees get weak. She sits back down in her seat. "All those sweet little words you said to me, all those nights purring in my ear, you were so eager to be owned by me you couldn't stand it," he tells her, his voice lower, his composure returning. "You put your arms around me and you spread your legs for me and you let me fuck you so hard I could split you in two. You wanted everything that comes with being mine, and you got it. And the minute I make a choice for the both of us you want to get away from me. So that makes you a liar." He glares at her. "And I fell for it. I fell for it."

They don't speak. Rebecca keeps looking at him, hoping that his angry face will inspire her to say something in her own defence. She can't believe how quickly things disolved. It doesn't take much to blow everything apart. A gentle knock is heard at the cabin door. Rebecca's dinner has arrived. "Come in," he says.

A young man enters with a cart. He doesn't make eye contact with either of them. He places the tray on a side table and leaves quickly. Rebecca looks at the food. Her stomach growls. Though she's hungry, she's too upset to eat.

"When are you going to bring me back?" Her voice is hoarse.

"We'll refuel when we land. My crew will take you wherever you want after that."

"Do you love me?" she asks.

His jaw tightens.

"What do you care?"

"I love you," she says, and her voice cracks.

He shakes his head.

"No, you don't. And even if you did, it's too late now."

 **Seventeen**

"Hey."

"Who is this?"

"It's Leon."

Claire starts to laugh. She's sitting in a motel room on the outskirts of town. The overhead light isn't working; only the standing lamp in the corner has a bulb that isn't burnt out. She should have looked into the place before checking in, but she was too tired to care enough after the long drive. Leon is miles away, in another motel. He's calling her on his cell phone.

"Oh... I didn't recognize your voice..." she says.

She's telling the truth. "What?"

"I wanted to know how you were."

"Alright. I just got back from Cumberland's."

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's good. He's got a couple of guys guarding the place."

"Who are they?"

"Ada sent them. That's what he told me."

Leon's stomach flips over. Whenever he hears Claire say her name, he feels like he's done something wrong.

"Any progress?" he asks warily.

"Some, but it's too early to tell."

"Man."

"What?"

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

"You and me both. But it's what Rebecca wants."

She listens to Leon sigh.

"I hope she's right."

"Me too."

There's a pause.

Claire has always liked the sound of Leon's voice on the phone. It threw her off, not recognizing it earlier. How could she possibly forget the deep, whiskey tone, the boyish timbre? She smiles, embarrassed at the thought. She's spent so much time with him in the past few weeks that she's become accustomed to his voice. No one sounds the same on the phone as they do in person. Claire remembers the time she and Chris messed around with an old tape recorder. They taped themselves singing silly songs that they made up as they went along, calling each other names, and laughing uncontrollably. Listening to the playback freaked them out. "I don't really sound like that!" Claire had exclaimed. Chris assured her she did. Voices sound different in your own head.

Leon has the best telephone voice she's ever heard.

"So what're you gonna do now?" Leon asks.

"I don't know. I could do what probably everyone else does and put a quarter in the bed stand."

"No way! It's one of those vibrating beds?"

"Yeah," Claire says. She puts her hand over her face. "I picked the wrong motel to stay in."

"Do they even make those things any more?"

"No, they don't. Which means this bed is probably forty years old."

Leon starts to laugh. His laugh is nicer on the phone.

"Oh man! I'd love to see it! Do you have a camera on your phone?"

"No, but I wish I did. You have to see this bed. It's really ugly."

"Put a quarter in right now."

"I'm not gonna put a quarter in! Are you nuts?"

"I have to hear this thing in action!"

"No way!"

"Claire? Claire? I will be your slave forever if you put a quarter in the machine right now."

"People in the other rooms will hear. The walls are fuckin' paper. And the guy who owns the place knows I'm alone! How gross is that?"

"I triple dog dare you."

Claire stares at the ugly picture across the room.

"You did NOT just dare me."

"Yes ma'am, I did."

"That's low, Leon."

Claire could never turn down a dare.

"Lowest of the low. Go for it. Put a quarter in the machine. Be retro."

Claire starts to giggle.

"Alright, I'm doing this because you dared me to. If I get a funny look from the manager tomorrow morning I get to spit in your eye."

"Fair enough."

Claire fishes a quarter out of her pocket and sits back on the bed. She's thankful the sheets are clean. She puts the quarter in the slot and pushes the "on" button. The bed instantly springs to life and starts to gyrate obscenely. Leon can hear it as it whirs away. He starts to laugh. "Ride 'em, Cowgirl!" he yells into the phone. Claire's cheeks are getting sore from smiling.

"Whoa!" she calls, and her voice sounds robotic as it unwillingly vibrates in her throat.

"Shit, when's it gonna stop?" he asks.

"I don't know!"

The bed shakes for a moment longer before sputtering out. Claire tries to catch her breath.

"That's it?" Leon asks. "What a jip!"

"You owe me a quarter!"

"That's all a quarter gets you these days? That wasn't even long enough to get through foreplay!"

Claire swallows hard as he says the word.

"I think the quarter is only reserved for the main event," she says.

"Even then. That's not a main event. That's a drive-by."

"I hate this bed."

"Aw, man, I should have come with you. I missed the discomatic sex bed."

"I'm sorry. Next time you can come with me."

"Yeah, I'll come with you next time," Leon says.

Double entendre.

Claire's face turns red.

Leon's smile slowly fades as he looks out the window. He's lying on his own motel bed and has a full view of the sign outside. He leans over and turns off the lamp on the night stand, and the room is bathed in red neon. He thinks about how much he's gotten to know Claire Redfield. He thinks he should have done it sooner. He kicks himself for not keeping in touch. There were other things he had to do, though. They had to go their separate ways. He's glad their paths have crossed again.

For more reasons than one.

"How are you?" he asks.

"I'm alright," Claire says. Her voice is lower. Leon likes the way it sounds.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. A little tired. Not as much now, after that, but still."

"Yeah, that would wake me up too."

"Hmmm."

Leon looks at the clock next to the lamp. It's 1:00 am.

"You sound pretty beat," he says.

"Yeah."

"You're alright?"

"I'm alright."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Leon decides he's ready.

"What are you wearing?"

Claire shakes her head, doesn't think she's heard him right. "What?" she asks.

"What are you wearing?" he repeats.

Claire looks down at her hand. She thinks he's playing a trick on her. She giggles.

"Shorts and a t-shirt, why?"

"Yeah?"

His voice has changed. His question is deliberate.

"Yeah, why?"

"What colour shorts?"

She looks down.

"Grey."

"What colour top?"

"Red."

"Nice," he says.

Claire keeps it going.

"What are you wearing?"

"Jeans and a shirt."

"What colour jeans?"

"Blue."

"What colour shirt?"

"Black."

"With buttons?"

"Yeah."

"Are the buttons done up?"

"All of them except the top two."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

There's a pause. They listen to each other's breathing. "Are you on the bed?" Leon asks.

"Yeah."

"On your back?"

"Yeah."

"Me too."

"Oh."

He reaches up and starts to undo his shirt.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

He wants her to be comfortable. Claire's heart starts to race. "Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"Take your shirt off."

"Why?"

"I'm thinking about your breasts."

He slides out of his shirt. Claire stares at the bedspread.

"Really?"

"Yeah..." he purrs. "I'd love to see them right now..."

"Really?"

"I'll bet you've got great tits..."

She can't believe this is happening. She can't believe it's Leon on the other end of the phone, speaking to her, saying these things. Part of her wants to put an end to it, so that she doesn't complicate things. The other part wants to hear how he sounds when he comes. "Are you wearing a bra?"

"Yes..." Claire says. She pulls her shirt over her head quickly, puts the phone back to her ear.

"What colour?"

"Black."

"Lacy?"

"Yeah."

"Soft?"

"Yeah."

"Would you let me put my hands on your breasts?"

"Yes..."

"I'd like that..."

"Me too..."

Claire listens as Leon shifts his position on the bed. She doesn't know what he's doing. All she can hear is the creaking of the mattress, and the soft, raspy sound he makes as he gets comfortable. "Put your hand on your breast for me." She does. "Are your nipples hard?"

"Yeah..."

"Good." He sighs and starts to unbutton his jeans. "You know what I'd love to do?"

"What?"

"I'd love to be there right now... I'd love to lick your nipples... I'd nibble them..."

Claire pinches herself as he speaks. "I'd kiss them..."

Claire sighs. "Kiss your breasts..."

"I'd like that..."

"You would?"

"Yeah..."

"So would I..." He unfastens the final button. "'cause I've checked you out, baby..."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah..."

"When?"

"When you were asleep."

"Really?"

"Took everything I had... not to crawl into bed with you..."

She doesn't care if it's true or not.

"Really?"

"... not to turn you over... onto your back..."

Claire sighs again. She's trying not to make any noise. She doesn't want to miss a word of what he's saying. She might never hear it again. "Do you know what I'd do to your breasts in bed?"

"No..."

"I'd kneel over you," he says, "I'd put my cock between them, and I'd fuck them... I'd fuck your breasts in your bed..."

Claire lets out a breath. "Does that turn you on?" he asks.

"Yes..."

"Are you turned on now?"

"Yes."

"Me too... just thinking about that... gets me hard..."

He puts his hand down his pants, grasps himself firmly. "I'm gonna stroke..." he says.

"Oh..."

"Do you mind?"

"No..."

"You don't mind if I jerk my cock for you?"

Claire's stomach flips over again.

"No..."

"No... I didn't think so..."

Claire listens as Leon begins to work his sex. His breathing grows steady, his hand moves with determination. "I'd love it if you were here..." he says.

"Yeah?"

"... sucking me off..."

Claire shuts her eyes. "Would you suck me off, baby?"

"God yes..." she admits.

"Yeah?"

"I'd love to..."

"Tell me how much you'd love it..."

She smiles. She doesn't know what to say. She expected him to do all the talking.

"I'd love to taste you..." she says.

"Yeah?"

"I'd love to know how thick you are..."

"I'm very thick..."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmmm..."

"You've got a big dick?"

"I've got a really big dick, baby..."

Claire gets up from the bed, walks over to the lamp, and turns it off, leaving the room in darkness. She returns, lies down on her back, and continues to listen. He moans softly, pulls his pants down further so that he can stroke his entire length uninhibited.

"How big is your cock?" she asks boldly.

"Eight inches," he says with a smile she can't see.

"Really?"

"Want me to fuck you with all eight inches?"

Claire smiles too.

"Yeah," she whispers.

The subject is scintillating, but she's still shy about it. He is too, to a certain extent. If either of them laughs, the moment will be ruined. And Leon wants to know what Claire sounds like when she comes.

"God, I'd love to fuck you right now Claire..." he says through his teeth.

"Me too..."

"Are you wearing panties?"

Claire didn't think guys liked to say the word.

"Yes..."

"What colour are they?"

"Blue..."

"Take 'em off."

Claire pulls off her shorts. Then she pulls off her panties. She waits for him to speak again. "Are you wet?"

"Yeah..."

"Are you wet enough for me to fuck you?"

"Not yet..."

"Not yet, huh?"

"No..."

"I can't fuck you unless you're really wet..."

"Oh..."

"I don't want to hurt you..."

Claire moans gently.

"Can you get me wet?" she asks.

"Yeah, I can get you wet..." he says. "I'll pull your hips to the edge of the bed... I'll kneel down in front of you..."

"God I love that..."

"... mm-hmmm?.. start licking your clit..."

"Yes..."

"... lightly... just lightly... 'cause I want to tease you..."

"... fuck..."

"Lick your fingers."

He hears her mouth open, and waits for her tongue to moisten them. He's glad he's getting such great reception. Claire starts to purr. "Are they wet?"

"Yeah..."

"Good... good..."

His jaw tightens, and he throbs. "...let me hear you fuck yourself..."

"... fuck..."

"... that's right... think of me going down on you..."

Claire arches her back; she follows his directions. "... getting you nice and wet..."

"... fuck..."

"... I love the way you taste..."

"Oh..."

Leon has to be careful, or he'll lose it.

"... you're so fucking hot..."

Claire groans. Leon gets caught up, keeps going. "... I'd love to pin you down right now..."

"... fuck..."

"... spread those legs..." She grunts. "... ram my cock inside you..."

"... Leon..."

He sits up at the sound of his name. He had her pegged as the kind of girl who'd call out her lover's name, over and over again. He loves the way his name sounds in her mouth.

"... yeah..."

"... I'd love that..."

"... you would, would you..?"

"... yes..."

"... do you wanna come..?"

"... yes..."

"... you wanna come..?"

"... yeah..."

"... I wanna come too..."

"... yeah..."

"... can't take it..."

"... Leon..."

"... 'cause I bet you look so good there, touching yourself..."

Claire flips onto her stomach, continues to obey him. He can hear she's turned over. His imagination soars. "... come with me, baby..."

Claire begins to moan. The sound of her pleasure eggs him on. He's hot, rubs himself harder and faster, mimicking the intensity of Claire's voice.

"... Leon... fuck me... I want you to fuck me..."

"... yeah..?"

"... please..."

He shuts his eyes tight.

"... come all over you..."

"... yes..!"

"... there you go... you're coming, Claire..." She can hear the wide grin on his face.

"... Leon..!"

He thinks of taking Claire Redfield from behind. It sends him over the edge.

The minute he starts to grunt, to release himself, a million spasms of delight rip through her. Each gripping a phone in their free hand, they moan, beg, curse, shudder, pump themselves until there's nowhere left to go. The feeling is incredible, the connection over miles and miles.

Claire thinks of Leon's orgasm as it pours over his fingers, she pictures him arching his back and writhing, a slave to the palm of his own hand. She pictures his muscular legs stretched out before him, his taut abdomen and chest heaving with grateful breaths. She pictures the things he said he'd do to her if she was within reach.

And Leon thinks of Claire, of her lovely breasts bouncing with every powerful thrust, of the sound she'd make if he slapped her hard on the ass, of how she'd look if her mouth was on him, or his mouth was on her. He's never seen her without a ponytail. He pictures her hair down, spilled over her shoulders, he thinks of the silky strands brushing across his chest like a sheet of rain.

They come together, helpless.

For a while, it's quiet. Leon finally speaks.

"... Claire..?"

Her heart skips.

"Yeah?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. They're afraid to speak.

"I needed that," Claire says.

She hears him chuckle.

"Me too. Jeez..."

She chuckles too. It's nice.

"What do we do now?" she asks.

"We should get some sleep. You wore me out. You're not even here."

"Yeah."

She looks over at the clock on the night stand. It's later than she thought it was.

"I'll meet you tomorrow," he says.

"Same time?"

"Same time, same channel."

"Right. I'll be there."

"Hey Claire?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a demon in the sack."

She laughs.

"It's this bed. It inspires."

"I'll bet it does. I should kiss you goodnight."

"How're you gonna do that?"

He pushes "3" on the phone. It beeps in her ear.

"Wow. Thanks, Leon."

"You're welcome."

His voice is soft again.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

"Goodnight."

"G'night."

They hang up. Logic immediately kicks in.

Both of them are in for a long, sleepless night.

 **Eighteen**

It's late when the small, rusted bells that hang above the entrance to the diner jingle. Ada knows her appointment has arrived; still, she doesn't look up from her journal. It's a habit of hers. She doesn't want to appear too eager to see anyone, no matter who they are. She prefers to offer a cool, disaffected look when face to face with an associate. No one is immune to the look either, not even Leon. Even though she's been waiting to meet this person in the flesh, she sticks to the routine. She'd love to look up, if only to see whether or not the other few patrons recognize the young woman now walking towards her. Something tells her they don't.

Ada still doesn't look up as the young woman sits down opposite her. Instead, she tosses her now useless pen under the table and closes her book, then slips it into her satchel bag. When she finally does look up, she's shocked. The woman seated before her doesn't look at all the way Ada pictured her. She was expecting someone younger, someone more naïve in appearance. Instead, it's a woman in her mid twenties with high, defined cheekbones and a sophisticated aspect. There's a reason why Ada's taken aback. Ever since Spain, she's made a conscious effort to stay out of the media spotlight. No pictures of her have been taken in a couple of years, save for the one the secret service takes every month, should she be kidnapped again.

"Ashley Graham."

"Yeah. Hi Ada."

Ada smirks.

"You know what I look like."

"I've been briefed on you," Ashley says with a small smile.

"Don't have to tell you how dangerous that is now, do I?" Ada asks.

"No."

Ada gets down to business. It keeps her mind from wandering.

"I'll level with you, Miss Graham."

"Ashley. Please, just call me Ashley. I get 'Miss Graham' a million times a day."

"Alright," Ada says. "Alright. A few months ago, I was working for an agent known as Hollum."

"Yeah," Ashley nods.

"Hollum's people carried out the murder of a woman named Eunice Johnson, an old associate of Albert Wesker's."

Ada sighs. "Associate" sounds more fitting than "Nanny".

"Yeah."

"Hollum was in touch with members of the secret service, the same people who gave agent Kennedy the order to shoot to kill if he ever encountered me."

"Uh-huh," Ashley says.

Ada knows she's heard all of this before. Still, she needs to hear herself recap things. It will keep her from asking the question she's dying to ask.

"I don't think I have to tell you Leon's gone rogue."

"I know," Ashley sighs. She sounds sad.

Ada wants to know why; her back goes up.

"Hollum's ties to Albert Wesker's former associates have been severed. He had some kind of ulterior motive behind the mission. Once everyone found out, the group disbanded. We've been on the run ever since." Ada leans forward on her elbows. "No one can find out where we are, Ashley."

"I understand."

"I think Hollum will try to contact the secret service again, to dispatch them somehow. If that happens, we're all dead." Ada looks Ashley dead in the eye. "That means Leon too."

"I get it."

"So I need your help."

Ashley nods.

"You want me to keep my ear to the ground."

"Exactly."

Only one simple answer is required.

"Sure," Ashley says.

"We have to keep looking into Hollum's activities," Ada continues. "Whatever he's got brewing, I'm sure it isn't good. I know what these guys are capable of. If it involves Albert Wesker, its impact will be felt on a global scale."

"I'll keep an eye out. Definitely."

Ada grins at Ashley's determination.

"You don't mind spying on your own secret service?"

Ashley blushes and looks down at her folded arms.

"Well, what've they done for me lately?"

The waitress comes by to ask Ashley what she wants. Ashley orders a coffee, black. Ada watches her.

She's getting jealous.

"There's something else," she says. Ashley looks at her. "There's a doctor, a former Umbrella scientist by the name of Andrew Cumberland." Ada slides a piece of paper across the table with Cumberland's address written on it. "He was the staff doctor for the group until it disbanded. He's working on something, and it's highly sensitive. As long as he's working on it his life is in danger. He needs protection."

"I'll make sure he's protected," Ashley tells her.

"Whatever you do, don't draw any attention to yourself," Ada says. She's annoyed that Ashley is so easily persuaded.

"I won't have to. I've got someone on my side who'll help us out. He's the best of the best."

Ada's intrigued.

"Who?"

Ashley smiles and shakes her head. She doesn't answer. "Alright," Ada says. "Alright. We have to come up with some kind of system to keep in touch."

"Yeah."

They discuss the method of operation over coffee. Ada is amazed at how directly Ashley answers questions. There's no hint of the shy, helpless girl Leon described to her. Ashley's older now, and appears to be more capable at handling things. She listens intently, doesn't ask too many questions, doesn't try to pry into things too deeply. She even offers suggestions that Ada finds extremely helpful.

Either the girl's a tactical genius, or someone's feeding her lines.

When everything has been decided, Ada sits back and takes a good, long look at the President's daughter. After a moment, she decides to call Ashley on it. "You're different than how Leon describes you," she says.

Ashley looks up from her coffee.

"How is he?"

"He's alright."

Ashley smiles and takes another sip of her drink.

"How does he describe me?"

"He says you're young, and you're braver than you let on."

Ashley sighs, looks up at the fan on the ceiling.

"He's always gonna see me as young, I guess."

"He's wrong about the other thing, though. You look pretty brave to me." Ada says it with a hint of suspicion. Ashley catches it, but it doesn't bother her. She knows who she's dealing with.

"After Spain," she says softly, "after all that… I never want to be helpless again. Not a chance. Leon… inspired me… he taught me to be brave." She looks up again and giggles, because it sounds dramatic. "He set a good example for me."

"I'll bet," Ada says.

"He's the only truly noble person I've ever met." She and Ada share a glance. "He told me you're a part of his past he can't let go of." Ada looks down at her satchel.

"He told you that, did he?"

"Yeah."

"Did he tell you anything else?"

"No."

"Did you ask?"

"Yeah. But he didn't tell me."

Ada smiles to herself.

"You're right. He is noble. Truly noble."

Ashley takes another sip. When she looks up again, Ada is looking right at her. "Did you sleep with him?"

Ashley considers whether or not she should have to answer. She decides she has nothing to hide.

"Yes," she admits.

Ada nods.

"When?"

Ashley sighs.

"A week after we came back. They held a dinner in his honour, for rescuing me. And… we left early."

Ada nods again. Ashley recognizes the look on her face. "I'm sorry," she says, as if it's her fault.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Neither of you." Ada occupies herself by keeping an eye out for the waitress.

"He cheated on you with me."

"No he didn't. It's… there's more to it than what you might think." The waitress is nowhere in sight. Ada looks at Ashley again. "Leon can see whoever he wants. He doesn't have to be loyal to me." She rubs her eyes. She's getting tired. "I don't expect him to be loyal to me, anyway. It doesn't matter."

Ashley doesn't know what to say. She keeps quiet, finishes off her coffee.

"I have to go," she says at last. She opens her purse and fishes out a twenty dollar bill, then puts it on the table. "Let me get this."

"It's not that much."

"Get something to go. You look like you need it."

Ada smirks.

"Thanks. How're you getting home?"

"My ride's out there. He's waiting for me."

"He was waiting all this time?"

"Yeah."

Ada smiles, and it's softer.

"Nice to have a guy who'll wait that long for you."

Ashley winks at her.

"I told you. He's the best of the best."

Ada watches Ashley as she leaves the diner. The rusted bells jingle, and she steps through the door. Ada can see Ashley's ride through the wide front windows. It's a ruggedly handsome young man, sitting on a motorcycle. Ada watches as he leans forward and greets Ashley with a kiss. The President's daughter puts on the spare helmet, and after an impressive rev of the engine, they ride off into the night.

Ada has never felt lonelier.

 **Nineteen**

"Hey," Jill says to Chris. He takes a deep breath and squeezes her in his arms.

"Hey."

"You falling asleep?"

"Yeah."

"Tired?"

"Mm-hmmm."

He kisses the top of her head. "You tire me out, Jilly."

"I know."

"You're a wild party."

Jill smiles.

"I am a wild party."

"Yup."

Jill runs her fingers through the light hairs on Chris' chest.

"Jeez, you're a hairy beast."

Chris grins.

"Means I'm a man," he says.

"Yeah, right."

"A manly man."

"Uh-huh."

"Mm-hmmm. The manliest of men."

Jill rolls her eyes.

"You wish."

Chris chuckles; it fades away too soon. Jill can tell he's worried about something. "Are you alright?"

Chris sighs and shifts his position on the bed.

"Yeah."

"No you're not."

"No?"

"I can tell."

"Oh yeah. I forgot you worked for the CIA."

They smile.

"What's up?"

"I'm worried about Rebecca."

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"Why?"

Chris looks down at her.

"Because she's with Wesker."

"You don't think she's safe?"

"Do you think she's safe?"

"In a way, yeah, I do."

"I don't."

Jill sighs and runs her hand over Chris' stomach.

"I do. It's like being in the eye of the hurricane. It's always calmest there."

"Nice metaphor," he says flatly.

There's disdain in his voice. Jill hates hearing it. It annoys her.

"You don't have to be a jerk about it."

"Sorry." He strokes her shoulder with his fingertips. "Sorry. I just hate the idea that she's with him now. Who knows what they're doing. What he's doing."

"From what I gather, I think I know what they're doing."

Chris groans.

"Fuck, Jill, don't be sick."

"What?"

"What a shitty thought. Shitty fucking thought."

"It's true, isn't it?"

"Eighteen 'till she dies. Fuckin' sick. And he knows it too."

He shifts again. He's getting uncomfortable. Jill rolls away from him and sits up.

"I'm sure he does."

"God, I wish I could shake some sense into her."

Jill's gaze narrows. There's something he's not telling her.

"Why are you so worried?"

"Why wouldn't I be worried?"

"Tell me."

Chris doesn't catch it.

"Because this is what she does, Jill. She can't help it. She feels sorry for a guy, whatever, he pulls her heart strings or whatever, and she sleeps with him. Why do you think she got so close to Billy Coen? She felt sorry for him, she thinks he's innocent. Doesn't matter if it's true or not, she figures he's been shafted, so she wants to be a part of him." Jill listens carefully. "Same thing with Wesker, of all fucking people or whatever the fuck he is. He's got a sob story, sure, but he's using it to his advantage, right? He's got her with him, right? She didn't know jack about him before and she hated his guts, but now he's told her some long story about how he was abused and all that, so what? She feels sorry for him and she lets him use her. Only reason he keeps her around is because that way he's still connected to us. And you know what that means."

"What if she wasn't sleeping with him?"

Chris looks at her.

"Same thing, even if she wasn't. Even if she isn't now, it's the same thing."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"How do you know it's what she does?"

Finally, Chris catches on. He looks away.

"Because I know."

Jill stares at him. "You slept with Rebecca?" He sighs heavily, purses his lips together, and nods. "When?"

"Doesn't matter when."

"Yeah it does!"

Chris' heart starts to race. He doesn't want Jill to get mad. To him, there's nothing worse than that.

"The night you dumped me."

Jill lets out an exasperated breath.

"Didn't take you long to get over me, did it?"

He looks her right in the eye.

"Don't. You know that's not how it is."

"How is it then?"

"How is it? My only girl dumps my sorry ass the night I get back and doesn't tell me why. That's how it is."

"You still don't understand why?" Jill says. She's getting angry.

It's alright if she gets angry. If she gets mad, then it's a problem.

"You left, you didn't tell me where you were going, when you'd get back, if there was anything fucking wrong, nothing. No word, nothing. I went through hell back in Raccoon and I get to your little hideout and all I find is your knife. I thought you were dead, shithead!"

"I couldn't tell you where I was going, because you'd follow me!" Chris says.

"Oh, and I can't handle myself in that kind of situation, can I?"

"Of course you can, you know I don't doubt it! I'm just saying…"

"So you call Rebecca over?"

Chris grinds his molars together.

"I was drunk."

"So what?"

"I missed you."

"That's nice. You miss me, so you call another girl."

"You told me you couldn't see me!"

"You told me I couldn't come back! Ever!"

Chris doesn't speak. He didn't know she kept his words with her for so long. He can hear the resentment in her voice. Jill glares at him. "Is she better than me?"

Someone walks by the door. Chris starts to get self-conscious.

"She wasn't trying to be better than anyone," he says in a lower voice.

"Was it good for you?" she continues; the sheets are balled up in her fists.

"No." They look at each other. "No. I thought about you. And she thought about Billy. I said your name and she said his. That's how it was."

Jill looks at him, but doesn't say anything. She thinks about that night, goes over it again and again. It seems like it was a hundred years ago. Chris watches her intently with large, brown eyes. "I'm sorry I said you couldn't come back," he murmurs. "I wanted you to come back. You're my girl." Jill looks away, because it hurts too much. "Jilly?"

"What?" she mutters.

"You're my girl."

"I know."

It's quiet. Curious, she checks to see if he's still looking at her. He is.

"And you kick total ass," he says.

She smirks.

"You remember that, asshole."

He nods.

"I will. And I'll never forget it."

He opens his arms. She's reluctant at first. Then she remembers how good it feels to be held by him. Her head nestles against his chest, and soon his heart beat lulls her to sleep.

 **Twenty**

They haven't spoken to each other in a couple of days. It hasn't been as difficult as she thought it would be. She avoids eye contact, doesn't stay in the same room with him for very long, tries to keep occupied with other things. She feels guilty that it's so easy to ignore him. It should tear her apart to know that he's just a few feet away from her, but that he doesn't want to engage her in conversation either. It should upset her to no end. She should miss his smell, his voice, his touch, everything about him, but she doesn't. Anger, sometimes, is more powerful than love.

He's sitting on one of the couches and reading the paper. He hasn't read the paper in a long while. World events never really interested him, unless he had something to do with them. He reads with a generous amount of scepticism. He has ways of finding out if the daily news are true or not. He has access to a wealth of information through the contacts he's made. Still, the act of reading the paper is a familiar one. Besides, it keeps him from looking up at her. After a while he realizes he's read the same sentence a hundred times over. His mind is wandering. He's not thinking of Rebecca. He's thinking of coffee. He used to enjoy drinking it in the mornings. He found it luxurious. He can't drink it anymore, of course. It's only a fond memory now.

He always feels nostalgic on this day.

Rebecca starts to pace back and forth in front of the windows. The sky is clear. The sun glints off the snow. It looks calmer than it actually is, given their altitude. She looks out at the mountain peaks and suddenly wishes she could go skiing. These mountains are too precarious to ski down, of course. She wonders what he'd say if she asked to go outside and build a snowman. He probably wouldn't answer her. Or, if he did answer, he'd probably say something contemptuous and make her feel stupid. She starts to think of hot chocolate, of how good it used to feel to have a cup after a day outside in the cold. She feels she's entitled to one now, but she doesn't know if they have any. She doesn't know where his employees are. It would be so easy, mean so much, if she turned to him and asked him.

Her heart softens.

She does miss him.

"Albert?" she says softly.

Without hesitation, he looks up from his paper.

"Yes?" he replies, his voice just as gentle as hers.

"Do we have any hot chocolate?"

"I don't think so."

They look at each other. "I can have some brought up for you."

"No, that's okay." She sees the paper on his lap. "What are you doing?"

"Reading."

"Oh. I guess, huh?" she says, because it's obvious he's reading. "Any good news?"

"There's never any good news," he says.

"Oh. Is it really that bad? You look really upset."

"It's not the news. I can handle the news."

"What's wrong?"

"It's my birthday."

"Oh."

The word comes as a bit of a surprise. Of course he has a birthday; everyone has a birthday, even the very wicked. But Rebecca didn't think he'd ever tell her when it was. She didn't think he paid much attention to the passing years. She looks at him, takes in his features, now twelve months older. He looks about Chris' age, albeit more mature, but she knows he's significantly older than that. Her first instinct is to go to him, to hold him. She doesn't move. She doesn't know if she's forgiven him yet.

"Happy birthday," she says.

"Thank you."

"How old are you?"

"Forty-nine."

"You don't look forty-nine."

"No," he says. "I don't."

It should be a compliment, but they both know why he doesn't look his age. Even his appearance is the result of evil. "I'll have some hot chocolate sent up for you."

"No, it's okay, really."

"I insist."

"Albert, don't, seriously."

"Fine."

He goes back to reading the paper. Rebecca's heart sinks. She thought they were making progress. She walks over to the table. There's a bowl of fruit on top. She's not particularly hungry, but she decides to nibble on something, since it's there.

She picks up the only orange in the bowl.

He can smell it as soon as she starts to peel it, even though she's halfway across the room. He looks up sharply. "Rebecca." She turns and looks at him. "Throw that out."

She looks down at it.

"Why?"

He stands up quickly and marches over to her.

"How did that get there?" he asks, even though she can't answer him.

"I don't know," she says, defensive.

"Throw it out now."

"Why? Is it bad?"

He snatches it out of her hand, walks swiftly to the garbage pail in the corner, and tosses it in.

He takes off the glove that touched the orange, and throws it away too.

"What's wrong with it?" she demands to know. He ignores her. He picks up the telephone and dials for one of his employees. The phone is answered from somewhere in the building.

"Did you put oranges in the fruit bowl?" he asks someone. There's a pause. Rebecca's gaze narrows. "Don't bring any fucking oranges into this place again, do you understand me?" Another pause as the employee apologizes. "Good," he says. He slams down the phone.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps.

"I hate oranges."

"So what? I wasn't forcing it down your throat!"

"The smell of them makes me sick."

Rebecca shakes her head.

"You're fucking crazy! It's just an orange!"

He picks up a vase and hurls it across the room. It smashes into a million pieces. Rebecca's never seen porcelain shatter like that, with such violence, unless it's been shot. She stays quiet and watches him try to calm down. He returns to the garbage pail, pulls out the bag, ties it into a tight knot, opens the door and throws it into the hallway. He slams the door closed again. She looks at him, in shock.

Something else is going on. And there's no way in hell he'll tell her what it is.

"It's just an orange, Albert," she says, as if he should already know.

He doesn't answer her. He goes to the window and stares out at the snow.

Rebecca watches him. This is what she can't stand, this silence. There are so many things about him that she doesn't know, so many things he won't tell her. She's supposed to be in love with him - funny thought now, after all that - but there's so much beyond her reach. She knows his past, but only what was revealed in the old facility before he kidnapped her and brought her here. He's told her stories, recounted certain events in his life, but it's always still wrapped in thick mystery. She's asked him, but he won't name names, won't reveal the deepest, the darkest.

And he's never, ever, once, told her he loves her. He's never said the words.

What the hell am I doing here? she wants to know.

The phone starts to ring. He lets it go for a moment, then answers it. "Yes?" A pause. "Have you scanned it?" Another pause. "Organic?" He holds the phone tightly. "From who?" The employee answers his question. "I see. Bring it in here with a crowbar. I'll open it myself."

He hangs up the phone.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"A delivery."

He moves the coffee table out of the way, to make room.

"What kind of delivery?"

There's a knock at the door. He tells them to come in. The door opens, and the employees are preceded by a wooden crate, about six feet in length. They wheel it into the centre of the room and lay it down on the floor. "This End Up" is printed on the side, and they've followed the instructions. One of the staff hands him the crowbar, and they leave.

Rebecca has a bad feeling. "What's going on?"

"I'm opening it."

"What if it's a bomb?"

"It's not a bomb. It's been scanned."

"What is it?"

"I don't know." He looks up at her. "Stand back."

Rebecca retreats to a corner of the room. She watches him crouch down with the crowbar and go to work on the top of the crate. He turns his back on her when he succeeds in prying off the top. The contents of the crate are protected by straw. He pushes the straw aside.

With one sharp intake of breath, he recoils and leaps away from the box.

"What?" Rebecca asks. Her heart starts to pound. He doesn't answer her.

He's staring at the box.

"Albert?"

Silence.

She steps away from the corner and approaches him. "Albert?"

He won't stop staring.

She turns her head, then approaches the box.

She gasps, puts her hand over her mouth. "Oh god..."

Inside the box is the perfectly formed, naked body of Doctor William Birkin.

He's lying on his back. His eyes are closed. His blonde hair is combed. His skin is smooth, without a single mutation. His lips are parted slightly. He looks as if he's smiling.

Albert approaches the crate. He kneels down next to it. He reaches out and lays his hand, without its glove, gently, on William's cheek. It's warm.

He's flesh. He's blood.

There's a note, in a small envelope, in his hand. Albert takes it and opens it. It reads:

 _You're. Next._

"Grab everything you can," he whispers to Rebecca.


	5. Chapter 5

**Twenty-One**

"You're getting careless, Mr. Coen."

"I know."

Billy was on the phone with Hollum. He woke up twenty minutes earlier. His head was killing him, and someone stole his wallet while he was unconscious. None of that mattered. He let Rebecca go and failed at taking Wesker into custody. Hollum wasn't too pleased with him.

"Perhaps you're not up for the task," Hollum said.

"I'm up for it. I was careless, I admit, but I'm up for this. He caught me off guard."

"That surprises you?"

"No. No, it doesn't."

Billy turned around and kicked the brick wall with his boot.

"You have to keep your objectives uppermost in your mind, Mr. Coen. Arrest Wesker, rescue Miss Chambers. We're running out of time."

"Out of time for what?" Billy asked.

"Focus on your task, Mr. Coen. I'll be in touch."

Hollum hung up the phone. Billy stood in the darkness, shaking. He didn't care so much about what Hollum said. He defied authority in the past, and he'd do it again in a second if he thought it was best. Without the conversation to escape into, Billy finally had time to think. He only had one question.

Why would Wesker let him to live?

Billy thinks about that night now. He's sitting in some kind of café – a mom and pop place that makes German pastries in downtown Berlin. The table he's at is wobbly, but close to the window so he can watch the people as they go by. The pastries are alright, but the coffee's amazing. It's giving him the perfect excuse to stay where he is instead of going back to the hotel. The room he's staying in is nice, but drafty.

He wishes his bed was warmer.

He hasn't seen her in four years; not up close, anyway. He should have kept in touch, but he couldn't. It was too dangerous. He was afraid he'd ruin her career, or put her in harm's way. It's been difficult, keeping out of sight and away from her. It's even more so now, though for different reasons. Her newly acquired abilities are making it difficult, of course. But there's more to it than that. He's failing because he doesn't know how she's going to react when he waltzes back into her life. They used to argue all the time, in between the hours of making love. Fight, make up, fuck. Fight, make up… No doubt, when the time comes, they'll have another argument. Her intensity hasn't faded, and neither has his.

She used to run her fingers along his tattoo. She used to look at him and say "Motherlove!" with gusto, to tease him affectionately. She did it whenever she couldn't think of anything to say, whenever there was a silence that needed to be filled. He would lean over and kiss her, and they'd start again. Hands everywhere, lips everywhere, legs entwined, murmurs and sighs. They'd spend entire nights naked, admiring each other's skin, each other's eyes. He had to get as much of her as possible, to last. He did whatever she asked him to do.

He told her he loved her, over and over again.

He sighs and looks up from his cup.

And sees her walk by.

He stands up abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping across the floor. The person on duty curses at him in German for disturbing the relative tranquillity of the café, but he doesn't listen. He runs out of the café and looks right, then left. He can see her disappearing in the crowd. She's wearing a skirt. She doesn't think anyone is watching her. He can tell she's not on her guard. He starts to follow her. The pedestrians occasionally get in his way, and he has to resist the urge to push them aside and call out her name. Even walking casually through a crowd, her pace is quick. He decides to cut her off and takes a side street on the right.

His heart starts to race. He doesn't know what to expect, but he can guess. She'll be angry, that's for sure. She'll throw the years apart in his face. She might slap him. Whatever she does, he won't care. Anything will be worth it. When he emerges from the side street he sees her turn down an alleyway. He picks up the pace and starts to jog. There's no way she'll be able to get too far. She's wearing high heels. He's never seen her wear high heels before. High heels would have been nice. He would have asked her to keep them on. He turns the corner and sees her standing at the other end of the alley.

She's pointing a gun at him.

"Who are you!" she calls out angrily.

His mind goes blank. "Why are you following me!" He doesn't say anything. "Answer me!"

He takes a step forward. "Don't move!" He stops. She starts to walk forward. He hears the clicking of her heels on the pavement. The closer she gets, the more familiar he looks.

The minute she recognizes him, she stops dead in her tracks.

"Hi angel."

She blinks, but doesn't put the gun down.

"Billy?"

He doesn't answer. He figures the longer he waits to admit who he is, the easier it will be.

"Hey," he says.

Her eyes are wide, her mouth open.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Looking for you."

She doesn't know what to do.

"Oh."

He wants to go over to her, to hold her. He can't move. "Why?" she asks.

"I need a reason?" he says, slightly exasperated.

"Yeah." She nods deliberately, her gaze narrowing. "After four years, yeah, you better have a good fucking reason."

He can't tell her why he's looking for her.

Not yet, anyway.

"You're mad," he says.

"You're a genius."

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck you."

"I wanted to see you."

"Yeah, well, you didn't."

"Come on Rebecca…"

"No, you come on!" she yells. "Come on!"

Her face starts to twist up. He can tell she's going to cry. He looks down at the pavement, because he can't stand to see her so upset. Then he remembers how easily she can slip out of sight and he forces himself to look at her again.

"I've missed you," he says.

"Fuck you."

"I wanted to see you, all those years, I did," he says. "I wanted to see you, but I couldn't."

"Like hell you couldn't."

"What are you doing here?" he asks. It's the facts he needs first. The rest can wait.

"None of your business."

"Are you alright?"

"I was."

Her hand starts to shake. Despite that fact, she won't put the gun down.

"Angel…"

"Don't you fucking call me angel!" she yells. "Don't you dare!"

"Rebecca," he says, stronger, firmer. "I just want to know if you're alright."

"I'm fine!"

She's not.

He watches her as she slowly regains her composure. He watches her finger on the trigger of the gun. All he can do is watch her. He can't think. He can't speak. He can't say he's sorry enough. "We can't go back," she says, and her voice is cold. "Don't even think about starting again."

His heart sinks, but he keeps up a brave front.

"Okay."

"I'm with someone."

He clenches his fists.

"Okay." He wishes he could leave it at that. "Who is he?"

"It's not important."

"Alright."

"Now what do you want?"

She asks him again, because she's taken away the only thing she thinks he could want.

"Honestly?" She nods. "I wanna hold you."

"You can't."

"I figured."

"That's right."

"Can you at least put the gun down?"

She hesitates, then lowers the gun. She puts it away in its holster.

"Have you said everything you want to say?" she asks.

"Not really, no."

"Well…" she shakes her head. "Tough."

She turns to leave.

"Rebecca."

She stops, but doesn't turn around.

"What?"

He speaks softly.

"Meet me again. Let me at least explain myself."

"No."

"Don't I at least deserve that much?"

"No."

Silence. He thinks she'll leave now, but she doesn't.

She turns around.

Her cheeks are soaked with tears, but she's not sobbing. "Yes…" she whispers.

"Tomorrow at the Altes Museum. At two."

She nods.

"Okay."

She turns her back on him, and he listens as her footsteps on the pavement fade away.

 **Twenty-Two**

She's lying on the couch beneath a blanket, watching the log on the fire break apart in the orange tongues of flame. The employees made sure she was comfortable. It's pouring outside. She asked them to make her a stew and serve it to her in the livingroom. She asked them to build her a fire in the ornate wood-burning stove. They followed her request to the letter, even exceeded her expectations. She hopes it's because they truly want her to feel at home, and not because they fear reprisal. It's unfair of her to think that way; he hasn't raised his voice once, hasn't made any demands at all in this new place. Something's changed since they left Japan. The circumstances must have struck a chord with him. She wanted to ask him about it, but he wouldn't talk to her. He kept himself cold, and occupied.

Rebecca hears footsteps in the hall and looks up from the couch. She sees him standing in the doorway. He's soaking wet. His clothes are sticking to him, his long black leather jacket is decorated with beads of rain. His hair is mussed, and his hands are clenched. He's facing her, but his glasses keep his eyes hidden from her. His jaw is tight, his mouth a straight line.

Something's going to happen. Something's going to give.

"You're still up," he says.

"I'm not tired."

"You should go to bed."

She grits her teeth.

"Don't talk to me that way."

"I only think you should get some rest."

"I don't give a shit, thanks."

The words come after of days of silence, days of solitude; like those first couple of weeks in his penthouse, when she slept too much and ate too little. She watched the seasons change from behind the wide windows, watched as grey stone grew dry and cracked with the approaching cold. There weren't any trees below, not a single one lining the streets, so she missed the turning of the leaves. She missed the satisfying crunch of frosted grass beneath her boots. She missed the autumn festivals she loves so much. And she would have continued to feel isolated and empty, if he hadn't come to her that one night, with his gift.

The baby grand.

She kissed him then, for the first time. Damn the rest.

"Yeah?" she says, to prompt him, to keep him from standing there in the doorway.

He doesn't take the lead. Instead, he stares at her. She sits up, and the blanket falls away. She's wearing a nightshirt. Her skin is rosy in the firelight. Her green eyes sparkle. "Where were you?" she asks, concerned that he's drenched.

"At a club."

"You went to a club?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think you'd ever go to a club," she says.

"I did."

"Oh. Why?"

"I don't know."

"Oh."

For weeks, they've been at odds, from the moment she woke up in the plane on the way to Japan to this, in this flat in his homeland. Their cease-fire was passionate, but over too quickly. Their conversations, when they've had them, have been short and strained. He refuses to let her in on what he's thinking, what he's feeling. She won't acquiesce to his mood swings or his demands. They've been involved in all versions of argument. They haven't shared a bed.

Not that he ever truly shares his bed with her.

Now that she sees him standing there, she can feel it. He's not the same man he was when he left her earlier this evening, with no information, and no goodbye.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Okay."

A pause. She looks at him. She can't tell if he's looking at her. "They built me a fire."

He nods. "It's nice," she says. "I like it." She pulls the blanket up higher. "Did the club have a roof?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Because you're really soaked."

"I walked."

"Oh yeah."

He turns his head, looks down at the floor. Things are different now. "What is it?" she asks.

He looks up at her.

She feels her stomach lurch. He's done something terrible. Maybe he's killed someone, or killed several people. Maybe he's damaged something that can never be fixed. Maybe.

Maybe he's slept with someone else.

"I've taken you from everyone," he says.

"Oh..."

"I've made you... live this life... you said there was no way in hell you'd live this life..."

She remembers that moment.

"Yeah..."

"... but you're here. Because of me."

"... yeah."

It isn't what she thought it was. His tone has changed, his voice has grown softer. They're standing on the edge of something, teetering on the line, and any moment they'll plummet. Something happened while he was out. Something shook him up. She wonders if he'll ever tell her what it was. He never does. It exhausts her. They've fought about it, fought bitterly, but nothing ever gets resolved, and they retreat to their corners to nurse their wounds, alone. It's like living with someone who speaks an entirely different language; yelling louder and louder won't make him understand.

"I've lost them," he says.

"Lost what?"

"Your chain."

She feels the blood rush to her cheeks.

"My dog tags?"

"Yes."

She had forgotten about them, and a sharp pang of guilt shoots through her.

"Where?"

"I left them at the penthouse."

She grips the blanket and nods. "I hadn't planned on escaping. I was going to give them back."

"You left them..."

"... in my desk." He looks at her. She stares down at the cotton blue flowers.

"Okay."

"They meant a lot to you."

"Yeah. They did."

She looks up at him again.

"Forgive me," he whispers.

Rebecca doesn't know if she can do it again. Every time she has to do this it hurts. She doesn't know if everything really is forgiven, or if she's just buried her anger away in favour of something bigger, more important to her. She doesn't know if she can continue to call it love, to excuse every evil thing he's ever done because of what she thinks is love. She continues to regard him, and his stance never falters, he never looks away.

She recognizes this.

He's facing up to what he's done. He's facing up to everything he's done, all over again.

She stands up.

"I want to go out."

"Now?"

"Not now. If I want to go out alone."

He doesn't say anything. "I'm not a prisoner. I want time to myself."

"Yes."

She nods.

"I want you to talk to me. I want you to answer me when I ask you a question."

He knows what she means. He grits his teeth and looks away.

He doesn't know if he can give her that. "Albert?"

Their eyes meet. "That's what I want," she says.

For a moment, he stands perfectly still and doesn't answer. Then, slowly, he nods his head and softly says, "Okay."

Mementos can be forsaken. Sometimes, they have to be.

"Okay."

She leans over and starts to fold the blanket up, to get ready for bed.

He walks over to her, stops in front of her, and drops to his knees.

He wraps his arms around her and presses his face against her belly. She looks down and runs her fingers through his blonde hair, still wet from the rain. Her nightshirt is getting soaked, but she doesn't mind. His grip is strong. He starts to murmur. "Darling... dear heart... promise me..."

"You have to talk to me..."

"... sweet..."

"... you have to let me in..."

"... anything..."

She closes her eyes. "... anything you want..."

"Promise me you won't hurt me..."

"I'll never hurt you... never..."

"Promise me you'll talk to me..."

"... my word... you have my word..."

"God, Albert..."

She puts a hand beneath his chin and tilts his face up, then takes off his glasses. She looks into his amber and crimson eyes, unafraid.

"... make love to me..."

He nods and lifts up her nightshirt. She holds onto his shoulder as his strong hands, clad in his black leather gloves, slide up her thighs. He finds her, moist and lovely, with his tongue. He moans gently when he tastes her again. It's been too long since he's wrapped himself in her delicate scent, too long since she's put her legs up on his shoulders to let him penetrate her. She whimpers, and it urges him to keep going, to kiss her, lick her, thrust his tongue inside her and sigh passionately at her little mewls, her little yelps. He doesn't stop until she comes; there on his knees, in front of the fire.

 **Twenty-Three**

Claire wants to kiss Leon.

Badly.

They're sitting under a cherry tree in the middle of a field. The trees and grass are very well maintained. There are old wooden baskets scattered around, the same kinds that are used to collect fruit once it's been picked off of the branches. The days are longer and warmer, and the sky is pink as the sun sets. They needed a break from driving, and they don't want to face another night in a dingy motel just yet. Claire was quiet for hours, and when Leon finally looked over at her he realized why; she was gazing out at the countryside, bewitched by the orchards of the mid-west. He smiled and asked if she wanted to pull over, just for a little while. And she said yes.

Now the air is balmy and sweet.

And his voice is soft.

And Claire is going crazy.

Earlier, she watched him climb up the tree and pick as many cherries as he could. He dropped them one by one into the baseball cap she kept on the backseat of the car, filled the cap with as many as he could without spilling them, then hollered, "Look out below!" and jumped. He sat down and leaned against the trunk, then patted the soft grass next to him and invited her to sit. She did, and the two of them ate the cherries slowly, savoured each one. Afternoon turned into evening. They knew they should move on, but neither of them wanted to leave.

"I used to take school trips to places like these," Claire says.

"Me too," Leon says. He smiles at the memory. "Man… that was forever ago. We used to go apple picking in the fall and our teacher would get a bunch of pumpkins for us to carve for Halloween."

"Wow. I haven't carved a pumpkin in a long time."

"Neither have I. Halloween's for kids, though."

"Yeah, I guess." She looks at him. "Do you want kids?"

He looks down at his knees and starts wringing his hands.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

He's gone melancholic. She frowns.

"Are you alright?"

He nods. "Sure?" she asks.

He looks at her and smiles sadly.

"I'm alright." His fingers are stained with cherry juice, but he runs them through his hair anyway.

Claire gives him a look.

"I'm not asking you to give me babies," she says with a wry grin. "Don't worry."

He chuckles.

"I didn't think that's what you meant."

"I mean eventually."

"Eventually, yeah."

They look at each other. He sighs. "I'm gonna tell you something, Claire."

"Holy shit," she jokes nervously, because it sounds serious.

"I'm gonna tell you something I've never told anyone before."

Her stomach skips.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He gazes at the horizon. "Um…"

Claire shifts against the tree. Her heart starts pounding. "My first day with the R.P.D… they threw me a party. But I didn't make it."

Claire remembers the decorations in the new recruit office.

"Yeah, I remember you missed it."

"I had a rough night the night before… um…"

Claire watches him. He starts picking at his jeans. "… I got drunk the night before… too hung over to go to the party that afternoon…"

"You got drunk the day before?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He sighs.

"I broke up with my girlfriend. Well… she broke up with me, actually."

Claire bites her lip.

"That sucks," she says.

"Yeah… see… she broke up with me… she broke up with me because she said she couldn't see me anymore…"

He sighs again.

It's difficult for him to talk.

"Why not?" Claire asks gently.

He looks at her.

"Because… she said a couple of weeks before… she miscarried…"

Claire stares at him. He doesn't look away. "… I got her pregnant…" he says softly. "… and she didn't tell me about it because she didn't know what to do… and when she decided it was too late…"

Claire looks down at the grass.

"Oh…"

He looks away again, at the horizon.

"… and she broke up with me…"

Claire follows his gaze, so that he doesn't feel self conscious.

"Oh."

He chuckles cynically.

"It's weird… I could've had a ten year old now…"

Claire nods, but doesn't say anything. She can't believe he's opened up to her this way. Part of her feels bad for him, for this part of his past that he couldn't control. Part of her is deeply, deeply touched.

He looks at her. "Sorry… did that freak you out?"

"No, no," she says. She looks down. "I just didn't think you'd ever tell me something like that about yourself."

He smiles.

"I'm glad you're here."

Claire sighs, tries to lighten the mood.

"Me too. Because it's pretty out here." She looks at him. "You know what I used to do with cherries when I was little?"

"What?" he asks, still grinning.

"I used to rub them over my lips to make them look red because I couldn't wear lipstick." She picks up one of the cherries and bites it open, then rubs it over her lips. It leaves a luscious red stain behind.

"Congratulations," he says, nodding. "You look crazy."

She starts to laugh, and doesn't notice that he's staring at her lips and biting his own. When she stops finally, she smiles at him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says. He starts to get up. "But we should get going."

"In a bit. Please? I like it out here."

He pretends to be irritated and leans back against the tree. The smile slowly fades from her face. "You never told Ada?"

He shakes his head.

"No."

"I thought you would've."

"No."

They look at each other.

"You love her?" she asks.

He nods.

"Yeah, I love her," he says. "I love her very much."

Claire smiles.

"That's good."

He looks at her.

"I love you too, Claire."

She messes up his hair with her stained fingers and laughs.

"Yeah, I'll bet you do."

They play fight, under the cherry tree.

Best friends.

 **Twenty-Four**

Ever since Leon went rogue, President Graham refused to let his daughter out of his sight. It got to the point where she couldn't leave the room without him poking his head out the door to make sure she was alright. Ashley knew he was worried - he nearly lost his mind when he found out she had been kidnapped - so she didn't cop any attitude with him when he asked her, over and over, where she was going, who she was going with, what time she'd be back, and countless other questions. She was tempted to throw a fit on a number of occasions. But she knew he couldn't help it, so she answered each and every one of his questions and tried to remain as pleasant as possible.

He stopped worrying once he got her a body guard.

Ashley saw her body guard a couple of times when she was on her college campus. She could tell it was him by the way he kept his eye on her constantly. She always saw him from a distance, and he didn't look too intimidating; just like an average guy, he blended in with everyone else. Her dad told her it wasn't necessary for her to meet him, or know his name. He told her he could finally relax, because this guy was the best of the best. His nickname alone convinced President Graham that this was the only guy qualified to protect his daughter. Ashley asked her dad what the nickname was; he didn't tell her.

Ever since Leon went rogue, Ashley's been keeping an eye on the Secret Service. She doesn't trust them. Whenever she sees her father on television, delivering a speech while flanked by two large men in black suits, she gets nervous. She knows, of course, they wouldn't do anything to hurt her father or her family. But when it comes to the other people she cares about, she's not so sure anymore. Not since Ada contacted her and told her what was up. Whenever she's close enough to catch it, she keeps both ears tuned into what they happen to be muttering about. Most of the time it's bullshit - where they want to go for drinks after work, that kind of thing. Ashley cuts her eye at them every chance she gets. They think she's a stuck up bitch.

She doesn't care what they think.

One night, Ashley's attending a charity ball held at a lavish hotel. She was asked to give a speech on behalf of the White House, to inspire other young people to donate to charitable organizations. The dinner was delicious - she got to pick the menu herself - but a good portion of it ended up on her dress. She always had bad luck with tomato sauce. The good thing about the mess up, though, was the fact that she was staying in the best room in the resort, so all she had to do was go upstairs and get changed. She excused herself. Now she's standing in the lobby of the hotel and waiting for an elevator to take to the top floor.

Another guy she doesn't recognize is waiting with her.

When the bell rings Ashley steps into the elevator. The guy gets in too. She pushes her floor and stands in the corner. There are tinted mirrors on the walls, so she can see his face. He's not looking at her. The door to the elevator closes, and she doesn't realize that the guy in the elevator with her hasn't chosen a different floor. She looks down at her bracelet and notices a smudge of tomato sauce on one of the diamonds.

She starts to pick it off when she feels a cold blade being pressed against her throat.

Startled, she opens her mouth to scream when he grabs her arm and twists it behind her back. The force catches her off guard that she chokes on her own shriek. He grabs a handful of her hair and yanks her head back. "Scream all you want," her attacker hisses. "Scream all you fucking want, bitch."

Ashley whimpers. She'll scream when the elevator door opens again.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands.

"Shut the fuck up," he snarls.

"You work for that Hollum guy, don't you?"

He presses the blade against her throat tighter.

"You've been poking your little piggy nose where it doesn't belong you little bitch," her captor growls. "I'm gonna put an end to it tonight." He twists her arm further up her back. She grunts. "But I thought we might have a little fun first."

"You try it and I'll bite your dick off!"

He pulls her hair savagely.

"Feisty, huh? Man I'm gonna enjoy this."

He waits patiently for the elevator to arrive.

He still has no idea what he's in for.

The moment the door opens and he starts to drag her down the hall, Ashley starts struggling violently, not caring about the close proximity of the blade. At first it amuses him; but when she doesn't stop, he decides it's time to get serious. He's about to slice her open when she breaks free and grabs one of the decorative vases displayed in the hall. Without ceremony, she breaks one end of it and lunges at him, screaming, "Get the fuck away from me you piece of shit!" No one can hear her; everyone who would be on this floor is downstairs at the ball. Still, she jumps at him again, determined to cut his face apart. He dodges her and pulls back his fist, then punches her in the face. She goes down quickly and scrambles to recover.

Not a single member of the Secret Service hired to protect her is around.

 _Where the hell are they?_

Ashley's attacker knocks the vase out of her hands. It doesn't stop her in the slightest. She screeches louder, kicks at him, tries to strike him in the eyes to blind him. She drags herself along the carpet trying to get away but he pulls her back. He slams her up against the wall and grabs her by the neck, then starts to squeeze. She still won't give up; her fingers claw at his face, scratch him so maliciously she draws blood. He punches her in the stomach twice, three times, and knocks the wind out of her. She loses her breath and crumples to the floor, and he kicks her again for good measure. Gasping for breath, she watches as he kneels down in front of her and prepares to drive his knife through her heart.

And that's when her body guard appears out of nowhere, steps up behind him, and swiftly, ruthlessly, snaps her attacker's neck.

Ashley can only gape as her body guard, dressed in green riot gear and wearing a gas mask, drags the dead man by the collar to the elevator. He shoves the body into the cart and pushes the lobby floor. The doors close, and her attacker is dead and gone. He turns back and approaches her. The mask is freaking her out. The TMP machine gun at his side is scaring her even more. He helps her to her feet, then lifts her up into his arms. She can't speak, can't even say thank you. She lets him carry her to her room, lets him open the door with her swipe card, lets him take her inside and put her down on her bed. She's still trying to catch her breath when he turns around and begins to remove the riot gear. He starts with his gloves.

"You must be the best of the best," she says. "Holy shit, it took you long enough!"

His back to her, he doesn't answer. He removes the gun and puts it on the dresser.

"Where is everyone? Where are the rest of the guys? Do you know where they are?"

Silence. He shakes his head and takes off his jacket.

"Oh my god! He could've killed me! Do you know who he was?"

Another shake of the head. He removes his bullet proof vest.

"Oh my god! This is total bullshit! Who the fuck am I supposed to trust around here?"

He removes the mask and turns around.

Ashley stares at him.

He is, without a doubt, a total hunk.

"Um..." she says. He looks at her and grins. His short blonde hair is messy. A three-day five-o'clock shadow. He's a little taller than she is. And the green tank top leaves nothing to the imagination. "Uh... I should... thank you..." she says.

"You wanna thank me, never get into an elevator with someone you don't know again, alright?" he says softly.

Southern accent. Her knees get weak.

"Okay," she says meekly.

"I'm serious now. You get into an elevator with someone you don't know, how the heck am I supposed to protect you?"

"I didn't know you were here," she says, her eyes travelling down his chest to his hips.

"'Course I'm here. I'm always here."

"Daddy didn't mention you'd be here."

"Why would he?" He chuckles lightly. "You sure put up a fuss." He nods. "You're ever in that situation again you just keep doing that 'till I get there, alright?"

Her face turns pink when she realizes he's checking her out too.

"Okay."

He leans against the dresser.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Uh-huh," she says.

"Seem awful quiet."

"I'm distracted."

He smiles jauntily at her.

"What by?"

She shakes her head and looks at him.

"Daddy said you had a nickname."

He nods.

"Yeah, I got a couple."

"What is it?"

"Why do you wanna know?"

She giggles.

"I can't believe you put him back in the elevator..."

"Where else am I supposed to put him? Can't fit down the garbage chute."

She rolls her eyes.

"I can't believe this! I should be traumatized!"

"Hey, you wanna be traumatized go right ahead. I'll wait."

She looks at him.

"So what is it?"

"What?"

"Your nickname."

He smiles at her.

"Mr. Death."

She chuckles.

"Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Death."

He bows a little.

"You're welcome."

They stare at each other.

"So..." she says. "... are you still on the clock?"

He looks at his watch.

"Yup."

"So you have to listen to what I say, right? Because you're protecting me and all, right?"

He grins.

"Sure do."

"How do I look?" she asks.

He gazes at her for a minute.

"Well, your hair's all over the place and you're gonna have a nasty black eye in about an hour or two... you're scraped up pretty bad... you look like you just got the shit kicked outta you."

"So what does that mean?" she asks.

He looks at her.

"Means you're still the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"Wanna fuck?" she blurts out.

He eyes her with reverence.

"Yes ma'am..."

He steps away from the wall and approaches her eagerly. She wraps both arms around him and pulls him down on top of her. Her adrenaline is still pumping from fighting for her life, and she writhes against her rescuer with abandon. He pulls off every stitch she's wearing until she's completely naked, then pins her arms over her head and runs his roughened palm over her creamy skin. His hands are dirty and he leaves streaks behind as he fondles her. He smells musky and gorgeous as he leans down and kisses her. Ashley can hear her heart pounding in her ears. He presses her legs apart and lies between them, buries his face in her chest and starts to nibble one of her rosy nipples. He grunts his approval and runs his tongue over the flesh of one perfect breast.

"I can't believe you killed him..." Ashley pants as he pulls his shirt over his head.

"That's what I do, darlin'."

She reaches for the buttons of his pants, to hurry him up.

"It was so easy for you..."

"You bet."

"I'd love to see that again..."

"Well, you keep being the President's daughter and you'll see more, I guarantee it."

"And you'll protect me?" she asks. He slides out of his pants. She checks out his bulge and nearly faints.

"You know it," he says with a grin.

She kisses him fiercely and pulls off his shorts. He pushes her back against the bed and leans into her, presses as much of his lean body against hers as he can.

"God, you're fucking gorgeous!" she whispers as he takes hold of himself.

"You think?"

"God yes!"

He smiles. The skin around his eyes crinkles. He runs his stiffened manhood up and down, over her wet skin, teasing her.

"So you want me to do this, right?"

"Yes."

"'Cause nothing's hotter than a woman who knows what she wants... especially when she's your boss."

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. "I don't do this with every guy who's supposed to protect me... I just... loved kicking the shit out of that guy..."

He chuckles.

"That's alright, darlin'..."

"... I shouldn't be so horny..." she says as she squirms against him.

"Says who?"

"... I should be terrified," she laughs. "I should still be screaming my head off!"

"Oh, you'll scream your head off alright," he says with a wicked grin. "Gimme an hour, you can scream as much as your pretty heart desires."

And she does. Happily, shamelessly, passionately, she does.

After all, he's the best of the best.

 **Twenty-Five**

 _He was standing at one of the steel research tables, staring into a microscope._

 _Just where William told her he could be found._

 _William told her a lot about his partner when they were together. He told her about all the discoveries they made and the conversations they had. He recounted instances when Albert's brilliance really shone through, when he cut through the other employees' bullshit and exposed them as the idiots they were. Even when describing an event that wasn't flattering in the least, William never appeared anything less than inspired when talking about Albert. Whenever William spoke about his longtime partner and associate, he always beamed._

 _"Hello Wes," she said._

 _He cringed. He couldn't stand it when Annette called him 'Wes'. She only did it when they were alone, when no other researchers were around. She felt it was alright to be more familiar with him when they were alone. After all, Albert had kept his mouth shut about her relationship with William Birkin, even though he was one of the higher ranking scientists at the facility and it was his duty to report any violations of proper workplace conduct. So she called him the name that William had given him all those years ago, as if she, too, were a friend of his._

 _If they were ever really friends._

 _"Hello Annette."_

 _"You're still working," she said. He nodded. "Everyone else has gone home. Even Will."_

 _"That's just fine," he said. "I prefer it when no one else is around. I can concentrate better that way."_

 _She smiled._

 _"Am I disturbing you?"_

 _"No," he lied. He looked up at her. She wasn't dressed in her usual uniform; she was wearing a dress, and her hair was up. "You look nice," he admitted._

 _"Thank you," she said. "I was going to go out for the night."_

 _"Enjoy yourself."_

 _"Well... I was going to go out, but I think my date fell through."_

 _"You were stepping out with William?"_

 _"Yes," she said quickly. "With William, but... he's not feeling well."_

 _"Sorry to hear that."_

 _"Yeah." She looked around the room, to see if anyone else was around. "So here I am. All dressed up and nowhere to go."_

 _"Perhaps you should ask one of the other female researchers to accompany you," he said._

 _Annette giggled._

 _"Doesn't sound like fun when you put it that way," she said. He looked up at her._

 _"How so?"_

 _She rolled her eyes and shook her head._

 _"Never mind."_

 _He looked back down into the microscope. It didn't matter what she thought of him, one way or another._

 _Annette started to walk around the room, peering at different samples in jars, flipping through different flow charts. William told her Albert wasn't easily distracted. A bomb could go off in the next room, and he'd still take the time to finish up what he was doing. William was a dedicated researcher as well; but he didn't have the same level of focus. He once made a crack to Annette that his partner seemed to have some kind of mental condition that kept him so centred on his work; Asperger's syndrome or some other form of autism, perhaps. Whatever caused him to be so disaffected by human interaction, Annette knew she couldn't leave without getting what she came for._

 _"How late will you be here?" she asked him._

 _"Not much later." He looked up at her. "Why are you here?"_

 _She held her breath._

 _"What?"_

 _"If your plans for going out fell through, why would you come back here?"_

 _"Oh... why am I here," she said, as if she didn't understand him the first time. "Well... I thought maybe... you'd like to join me."_

 _"Join you where?"_

 _"Out... somewhere..." she stammered._

 _He stood up straight. Annette never noticed how tall he was before then._

 _"Don't you think that's rather unbecoming?"_

 _She chuckled and looked away._

 _"I just wanted to know if you'd like to join me for a drink, that's all."_

 _"I don't think that's appropriate."_

 _She tried to glare at him._

 _"It's a drink, Wes."_

 _"I'm aware of that. My answer's no."_

 _He started to collect his papers._

 _William told her that his partner was uptight. It could be amusing, in certain circumstances, to watch him stare someone down for saying something dim or off-colour. Albert didn't tolerate idiotic behaviour from anyone, no matter who they were. William told Annette that it was the main reason why most people stayed away from him; he was, for the most part, unapproachable. Even the most unapproachable individuals, however, needed to get laid from time to time._

 _William told her the woman to do it would have to be very, very determined._

 _"How old are you, Wes?" she asked._

 _"What concern is that of yours?"_

 _"You're twenty-six, right?"_

 _"That's right."_

 _"Do you ever get out?"_

 _His gaze narrowed._

 _"As much as I need to."_

 _"You should really learn to relax," she said._

 _"Be advised, Annette," he said in his low, authoritative tone, "despite the fact you happen to be seeing one of my peers, that I can still have you written up for insubordination."_

 _"You're the one who accused me of asking you out on a date," she said. "Who are you to be so assuming?"_

 _He smirked._

 _"I apologize, then, if I assumed too much."_

 _She sauntered over to him. He watched her approach. She stepped up close to him. He didn't even flinch._

 _"What if I was?"_

 _"Was what?"_

 _"Asking you on a date."_

 _"It would be a very unwise thing for you to do," he muttered._

 _She grinned._

 _"Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?" she asked._

 _William told her to pay attention; whenever Albert was uncomfortable he blushed._

 _She watched as his face slowly turned red._

 _"That's enough."_

 _"You do."_

 _"That's enough, Annette."_

 _She put her hand on his. He pulled away. "Go back to your room," he ordered._

 _"Have I offended you?" she asked, still smiling._

 _"What if I were to explain this little display to William?" he said. "I don't think he'd be impressed."_

 _"Fuck William," she said with as much resolve as she could muster. "It's you I want."_

 _He laughed._

 _"Right."_

 _"I do."_

 _She started to approach him again. He strolled away._

 _"Get away from me," he said. "You're crazy."_

 _"Really?"_

 _"Really."_

 _"You're the twenty-six year old virgin, not me."_

 _He looked up at her sharply, then smirked at her._

 _"It won't work," he growled, angry and amused at the same time. "Why do women always think the worst thing they can say to a man has something to do with his sexual prowess?"_

 _"Don't you ever get lonely?" she asked._

 _"Not in the slightest."_

 _"Don't you ever wish someone would come in here..." she started._

 _"I told you, no."_

 _"I think you're lying."_

 _"I'll bet you do."_

 _She kept walking forward. "Don't come any closer or I'll punch you," he said._

 _"You'd punch me?"_

 _"Without hesitation," he lied._

 _"What if I told you I liked that kind of thing?" she said._

 _"Then I'd spit in your face too."_

 _She laughed lightly and kept walking towards him._

 _"You know what you need?"_

 _"I need to write you up," he said._

 _She shook her head and finally found herself standing face to face with him. He stopped trying to manoeuvre out of her way._

 _"If you were gonna write me up you would have done it before," she said. "No, I know what you need."_

 _"What's that?" he muttered._

 _She leaned over to whisper in his ear when she caught a whiff of his cologne. It was nice; it urged her to keep going._

 _"I think you need a good old fashioned fuck," she sighed._

 _He closed his eyes and turned his face to her._

 _"What about William?" he asked._

 _"William?" she echoed. "What does he have to do with anything?"_

 _"You're with him."_

 _"Yeah."_

 _"You'd do this?"_

 _"Let me let you in on a secret, Wes," she said. Albert opened his eyes again and gazed across the room. "Will would fuck you over in a second if he got the chance," she whispered._

 _"Would he now?"_

 _"In a second..."_

 _She reached for his belt and unfastened it. He let out a raspy breath._

 _"Right here?" he asked._

 _"You have a better place in mind?"_

 _"My room..."_

 _"And let them catch me walking into your room?" she asked. "No... I think right here's good..."_

 _He slid out of his lab coat and let it drop to the floor._

 _Annette may have been crazy, but she was also very attractive when she wanted to be._

 _"Besides," she continued, "this is the room you have the most power in, isn't it?"_

 _He didn't answer; he was too busy enjoying the sensation of her roaming hands. "You're a gorgeous man, Doctor Wesker..."_

 _He embraced her, put his hands on the sides of her face as she continued to take off his pants. "... handsome... brilliant..."_

 _"Stop it," he said. His face had turned pink._

 _She looked at him, at his dark blue eyes, and smiled._

 _"I've always wanted to fuck you on this table," she purred._

 _"You have, have you?"_

 _"I've always wanted to know what it's like to fuck Albert Wesker..."_

 _He pushed the comment out his mind._

 _"Annette..."_

 _She put her hand on him, felt how rigid he was, how large._

 _"... Christ..."_

 _He looked away. "... I had no idea..."_

 _"Stop it now..."_

 _"... how big your cock was..."_

 _He tried to wriggle out of her embrace then. She chuckled again. "... don't be shy..."_

 _"I can't do this..."_

 _"Sure you can." She started to stroke him. He let out a soft, grateful moan. "There you go," she urged._

 _"Annette..."_

 _"... there you go Doctor..."_

 _She pressed her lips against his, and he opened his mouth and kissed her back, swirled his tongue around hers and punctuated every stroke of her hand with a gentle grunt. He started to breathe heavily; his chest rose and fell steadily, his hands drew her as close to him as possible. She continued, nudging him up against the table. She wanted him the way William had her - rough and remorseless. He wasn't easily moved. Her hands pulled at him, tried to get him to take control of her, to pin her down or hold her up. Finally, she decided to tell him flat out what she wanted._

 _"Doctor..."_

 _"... Annette..." he sighed as his hands smoothed over her breasts, over her ass._

 _"... fuck me Doctor Wesker..."_

 _"... yes..."_

 _"... right here..." she begged between kisses._

 _"... yes..."_

 _"... on this table..."_

 _"... dear... heart..."_

 _She never thought he could say something so affectionate. It caught her off guard. She switched gears again._

 _"... I want you to fuck me so hard I bleed..."_

 _He shook his head while he kissed her. "... I want you to..."_

 _"... no..."_

 _"... I want you to punch me..." she growled._

 _"... no..."_

 _"... spit in my face..." she said._

 _He pulled away, cupped her face in his hands._

 _For a second she thought she fucked it up._

 _"No," he said, gently, but firmly._

 _"No?"_

 _He shook his head._

 _She looked over his shoulder, at the large closet on the far wall._

 _The door was open a crack._

 _"Why not?" she asked, her eyes still fixed on the door._

 _His brow furrowed. He thought she must have been crazy not to have figured it out by then._

 _"I don't like it rough," he murmured._

 _She looked at him. He smiled; then, slowly, he hiked up her skirt, eager to know her._

 _Every move he made was slow, methodical. Every thrust of his hips, every stroke his cock took from her was languid. Holding onto him as tightly as she could, she saw his ass tighten every time he drove himself inside her, saw his fingers press into her skin, heard every stifled grunt and groan. She had no idea how strong he was until that moment, when he took her completely. He kept his eyes open and watched every feeling rip through her. Several times their eyes met; he had a look on his face, a conniving look that told her he knew she was enjoying herself. And he didn't stop. She closed her eyes and her head fell onto his shoulder. She had finally given up, given herself to him more than she expected to._

 _She thought about William._

 _She wanted to make William happy, more than any other man in the world._

 _"Let me watch..." he whispered earlier, in her ear, as he kissed every scrape, every bruise on her back. "... let me watch you with him... that would make me... so happy..."_


	6. Chapter 6

**Twenty-Six**

He's just staring at it.

It's completely dilapidated; the front porch has almost rotted away, the bricks are practically falling out of the walls, the foundation has sunk so low on the right that the building is leaning noticeably. Someone took a rock to all the windows; slices of cut glass remain like jagged teeth in the sill. Every heavy rainfall something else falls apart, something else is destroyed.

It's still taking too long, for him.

On this grey afternoon, he and Rebecca are standing about fifty feet away from it, and an eerie feeling is hanging in the air above their heads. She wanted to see it. And he promised her he'd show it to her. What else is there to do these days, on the run? There are only so many things they can accomplish indoors, away from everyone, in the safety of the flat, for entertainment. Rebecca feels guilty every time she starts to get restless. She shouldn't want to be occupied with something that will take her mind off the predicament they're both in. She shouldn't want to go out someplace, to laugh or otherwise enjoy herself. But she does get restless, and she does long to be distracted.

She figured she'd marry the two; the guilt and the restlessness.

So she asked to come here.

"That's it?" she asks.

He nods. "It's smaller than I thought it would be."

"It was bigger, when I was young. It seemed that way."

"How long were you here?"

"Seven years."

"And then they brought you to the States?"

"Yes."

She looks at it.

"How did it feel, when they told you you were leaving?"

"I started to cry."

She slips her hand into his.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I thought they were lying to me."

"Why?"

"I didn't think I'd done anything to deserve being rescued."

"Oh."

She looks at him.

His face is cold, emotionless.

It took them a while to drive out here. They drove until eventually the city became the countryside and the buildings became vast green fields. Despite their task, she loved the sheer beauty of the countryside. She was surprised no one really talked about Germany as being such a beautiful place. It was always the more exotic places that got the attention among her globe-trotting friends; the places with warmer climates, with reputations of being party destinations. She sat back, though, and stared at the countryside, and fell in love. The warm feelings slowly disintegrated the closer they got to the remains of the orphanage. He procured a car somehow, and drove the both of them to this place. Rebecca watched him drive, every turn in the road accurate, every movement precise. Then it struck her.

After more than forty years, he still knew exactly where it was.

"Wasn't really a rescue, was it?" she says with a cynical chuckle.

"No," he mutters.

She looks at it.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For exploiting you again."

"Curiosity isn't exploitation, dear heart," he says.

He squeezes her hand back.

The guilt grows.

For fuck's sake, this shouldn't be about me, she thinks. Why do I always make it about me?

She's thought about this moment for hours. She's thought about the position she's in, the position she's asked to be in for months now. Now that they've arrived at this point, she's ashamed. She wants to know about his past, but just thinking about the ultimatum she gave him makes her question her right to know. True, he's a cruel man, and he's done terrible things to innocent people. He's participated in the most disturbing acts imaginable, has killed with his own hands, has delighted in the misery of others and perpetuated a horrific blight that the world will probably never fully recover from.

But doesn't he deserve his privacy?

Isn't this villain the man she loves?

"Albert?"

"Yes?"

"Tell me why you don't like oranges." His jaw tightens. He doesn't say anything. "Is it because of this place?" she asks.

"Yes."

She nods.

"I don't understand why you hate them so much."

He stares ahead and says nothing. "Albert?"

He takes a deep breath.

"When I was young... five years old, or six, I can't remember... I stole one. From the pantry upstairs." He points at the left wing of the building. "I can see it from here, through that window." He lowers his arm. "We weren't allowed to eat them unless they were given to us. I was... hungry one day... not really hungry... just peckish... so I went into the pantry and took one and hid under my bed to eat it."

"You couldn't just take one?"

"No. And I didn't dare ask for one. They wouldn't have said yes. We weren't allowed to eat between meals. That's why I hid. But you can smell an orange... you can smell it from fifteen feet away..."

The memory of it makes him swallow hard, to keep from retching.

"They found you with it."

He nods. "They punished me for it."

"How?"

"They locked me in the cellar."

She looks at him.

"For stealing an orange?"

He nods. She looks down at his expensive shoes, standing in the mud. "How long did they keep you there?"

"A week," he murmurs.

"They left you there for a week?" He nods. "Did they feed you at least?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean?"

He starts to grind his teeth.

"They opened the door every day... some time in the afternoon... they gave me a glass of water... and an orange."

She looks up at him.

"An orange?"

He nods. "But you guys weren't allowed to eat the oranges or you'd get punished."

"I know."

She understands then.

"Shit..." She looks up at him again. "Shit... how could they? How could they do that to a little boy?"

"Because I didn't deserve any better."

"That's not true," she tells him. Her voice is weak.

"Yes," he says. "It is."

She steps away from him, stands in front of him. He looks at her.

"Why won't you let me tell you what your real name is?" she asks.

"Because it won't do any good to anyone," he says. "Whoever that little boy was, he died the minute he was left here. And I was born."

"You aren't the villain they created," she says. "You aren't. I know it."

"Yes I am," he says. "I'm the worst kind. No one created me. I created myself."

"Let me tell you who you are."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

She takes a deep breath.

"Please, just let me..."

"Shut up!" he snarls.

She stops, terrified.

He clenches his fists and looks at her, takes deep breaths to calm down. "Forgive me," he says. "Just... don't do this to me... I need this name... I need to play my part."

He lowers his chin and looks away. She steps up close to him.

"What else did they do?" she asks.

Curiosity...

He looks down at the marshy grass.

"They beat me for playing in the puddles in the yard..." he says in a low voice. "... they shoved me in the mud and made me sleep in the wet clothes... they drove a fork into my hand for playing with it during dinner... they punched me in the stomach when I woke up screaming from nightmares..."

Rebecca wants to cry, but doesn't feel she has any right to.

"One night..." he says, his voice getting softer, "... I wet my bed... some of the other boys wet theirs too sometimes... they used to sleep on the floor to make sure the sheets were dry in the morning... so I slept on the floor... but the sheets weren't dry in the morning..." His jaw tightens again. "... so they tied me to the toilet for three days..."

"Oh god..."

"... wrists down... with my pants around my ankles... with the door open..."

"Oh god..."

"... to teach me a lesson..."

He looks up at the building, at the legions of ghosts. "I'll never be that helpless again..." he says. "I'll never be that weak... no matter what it takes... no matter who's in my way... I'll be the one with the power."

"It's over, Albert," she murmurs, her head just below his chin.

"I know."

She looks up at him.

"If you know, then why are you whispering?"

He looks down at her, but doesn't answer.

 **Twenty-Seven**

Claire's heart is beating faster with every step she takes. She's not familiar with this area, and it's dark. She looks around her warily, keeps her eye open for any movement in the shadows. Everything is quiet; her heels echo on the pavement. Her cheeks are turning red as the air gets colder, her fingers feel raw. Her lips are chapped, and she keeps licking them to keep them moist. The more briskly she walks, the more she's prevented from finding what she's looking for, the closer she is to bursting into tears.

She's completely forgotten about the donut. And the coffee.

There are so many things she wants to ask him. Where he's been. What he's doing here. Who is he now, after so many years? That short exchange with him wasn't enough time to see what's happened to his face. It was too dark to see how much he's matured. He should be in his mid-twenties by now. If it's him. And if he's real. She remembers Wesker's words to her, the day his men carried what was left of him away. He told her that, perhaps, the young man would return as he had. Claire started to tremble. There was a very good possibility that she was trying to track down a Tyrant.

A form of Tyrant, as Wesker is.

Perhaps Steve, too, is a dead man walking.

She turns the corner and finally catches a glimpse of him. He's walking towards the construction site of yet another mini-mall. She can't tell what he's wearing; she can only see that his clothes are dark. He's wearing boots. He walks with determination, and she can hear the thick rubber soles on the gravel. Claire wants to call out to him, to see if he'll answer her. But she can't bring herself to say his name again. Not until she's in front of him. Not until she's absolutely sure.

There's always the chance that she's crazy.

She thinks about Leon. He's going to get worried. She should call him to let him know she's alright. But it would require admitting what she sees.

What she thinks she sees.

This is it; this is the part of her past that she can't bring herself to talk to him about. It isn't fair, when she thinks about it. Leon has shared many things with her, and she's shared a couple too. But she hasn't said a word about Steve. Not since that night in the locker room of the facility, when she admitted her love for Leon - or her lust for him - stemmed from what could have been with the young man who gave his life for her. She still thinks of him as a kid, though he wasn't much younger than she was at the time. She didn't tell Leon about the little looks Steve gave her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. She didn't tell Leon about falling on top of him, and his holding on to her for just a little too long. She hasn't mentioned anything about it because, despite everything, she doesn't think he'd understand.

Steve was a kid. An annoying kid, in fact. An abrasive teenager obsessed with firearms. It's funny, now that she thinks about it. He was so gung-ho about every obstacle they faced together. He yelled out his enthusiasm more than once. Not exactly the kind of person she'd expect to be so loyal, especially to her. But he was loyal, right to the very end. Even through the haze, when he was mutated and dying, he saved her life at the expense of his own.

Abrasive teenager or not; annoying kid, or not.

And Leon. Leon has his Ada. His sultry spy. His wounded damsel. He fell so hard for her he still hasn't gotten back up. He's told Claire of all the times he met with Ada over the past year. He's told her about all the things her memory makes him feel. He's told Claire about the love he has for Ada; how beautiful he finds her emotional scars, how much he wants to protect her from getting fucked over by things more powerful than her iron resolve. Compare his ghost - beautiful, broken Ada - to hers.

Steve Burnside.

Just a kid.

Who would understand that?

Claire stops and looks around her. He's gone, disappeared. She turns around and around, trying to suss him out, but it's no use. It's too dark to tell where he's gone. She leans up against a stack of steel bars and tries to catch her breath. She knows he's still here; he has to be. He wouldn't leave her behind. He wouldn't do something like that.

Her mobile starts to ring.

She pulls it out of her pocket and sees that it's Leon calling her.

"Hello?"

"Claire?"

"Hey."

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

"Thought you got lost," he chuckles.

"Sort of," she says. She smiles, because she can hear his voice again.

The smile quickly fades when she looks up.

He's standing right in front of her.

"Claire?"

She doesn't answer. She's looking at him.

He smiles at her.

 _Hey beautiful,_ he mouths.

"Claire?" Leon says again.

"Leon... I..."

She can't speak. She stares at him. He hasn't aged a day. "Leon..."

He shakes his head.

"Claire are you sure you're alright?"

She feels tears coming on.

"I dropped your donut," she says.

"Damn. I was looking forward to that," Leon says with a laugh.

"I'll get you another one."

"Nah, don't worry about it, I shouldn't be eating that stuff now anyway."

Claire starts to cry.

"I have to get you another one," she sobs.

She can't take her eyes off him.

In the motel room, Leon hears her shaky voice and sits straight up on the bed. "What's wrong?"

"I dropped it..."

"It's just a donut."

Hot tears spill over her cheeks.

He reaches out and wipes them away with his thumbs.

"I have to get you a donut..."

"Claire," he says sternly. "Get back here now. What's happened?" She doesn't answer. "Claire!"

 _Hey beautiful_ , he mouths again.

"Claire, something's wrong, now tell me what it is!"

She stops crying.

Still looking at Steve, she says into the phone, "I'll be back soon."

Then she hangs up.

Where they are, a couple of states away, Chris and Jill are just coming out of a drugstore. Chris isn't very pleased about it. "Drugstore at this hour..." he grumbles.

"It's not my fault you give me a headache," Jill says.

"I'll give you a headache," he says, pouncing on her.

"Ow! Fuck off!" she says, laughing.

"Wanna noogie?"

"No!"

"I think you wanna noogie, Jilly," he says.

"I swear Chris, I'm gonna..."

"Wait!" he says suddenly.

He stops what he's doing and stares off into the night.

"What?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"Christ... I thought I just saw Burnside..."

Jill looks at him.

"Steve Burnside? Claire's Steve Burnside?"

"Yeah... yeah, I coulda sworn I just saw him now..."

"Where?"

He points a fair distance away.

Two young men are headed away from them, up the street.

"Nah... nah, it can't be him..."

"Are you sure?"

"It can't be him," Chris says. "As far as I know, he was an only child. He didn't have a twin." He keeps looking at them, though, as they walk away. "... two twins..."

 **Twenty-Eight**

 _Sherry was a beautiful baby._

 _When she was born, she had a soft tuft of golden hair that stuck straight up. She had little chubby arms and legs and a big round head. She was tiny and pink and sounded like a lamb when she cried out for the first time. She looked like a cherub, an angel._

 _William loved her the minute he saw her._

 _He was holding her one day after giving her a bottle. He and Annette had bought their first place together; a bright apartment with tons of windows to let in the light. It was a sunny winter afternoon, and he was sitting in a rocking chair with tiny six week old Sherry in his arms. She was still colicky, even after her lunch. He was trying to soothe her. It wasn't an easy task. His wife was in the next room, finishing a paper._

 _"Annette?"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"She won't stop crying."_

 _"I know, I can hear her."_

 _"I gave her the bottle. Am I supposed to do something else?"_

 _"Did you burp her?"_

 _He looked at his daughter's face. It was red from wailing._

 _"I thought I did."_

 _"Try shushing her. Or swing her gently. You remember what the pediatrician said."_

 _He looked down at his little girl._

 _"That pediatrician was a quack, wasn't he sweetheart? Hmmm?" he said quietly to his little girl, as if sharing a secret with her. "Doesn't know his ass from his elbow, does he?"_

 _He chuckled, but the baby didn't stop._

 _If William thought going to work was exhausting before, he was dead on his feet when the baby was born. He was a wreck after Sherry's birth; he looked bagged the minute he walked through the door, didn't keep up with his shaving, and always had dark circles under his eyes. He had a newborn child that was waking up every few hours in the night, a secret wife that needed his attention, and countless research projects on the go. So when he was given a day off to spend time at home, he gladly took it. He wanted to catch up on his sleep. It wasn't working._

 _"I'm shushing, Annette."_

 _"You're also yelling right over her head."_

 _"I don't know what to do."_

 _"She'll calm down eventually, don't worry."_

 _He looked around the room for a toy to grab, something to entertain her with. He found a small stuffed animal and held it up in front of her, pretended it was walking up her arm and coming to get her. The baby's eyes were closed, so she wasn't paying attention._

 _"Look Sherry baby! Look!" he said._

 _She didn't hear him._

 _He chuckled again._

 _The more she cried, the more remarkable William found her to be. She was a perfect little person, lying in his arms. An open, innocent, blank slate. He started to think of all the things he'd teach her as she got older. Study hard in school. Stay away from boys. Always fight for what you want. Demand and earn the respect of others. Never give up. He wanted to be the kind of father he never had; a father who would praise her, who'd tell her she was wonderful, who'd encourage her. He wanted to sing her lullabies._

 _She was too young to understand them then, but that didn't matter._

 _"Sherry baby..." he said softly. "Sherry baby... do you want me to sing you a song? Hmmm?"_

 _The baby kept crying. "Alright," he said. "Let's see if I can remember it..."_

 _He started to rock back and forth in the chair._

 _"Over in Killarney... Many years ago... Me mother sang a song to me... In tones so sweet and low... Just a simple little ditty... In her good old Irish way... And I'd give the world if she could sing... That song to me this day. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra... Too-ra-loo-ra-li... Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra... Hush, now don't you cry... Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra... Too-ra-loo-ra-li... Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra... That's an Irish lullaby."_

 _He sang softly. Annette slowly approached the nursery and stood in the doorway. Her face was pale._

 _"Oft, in dreams I wander... To that cot again... I feel her arms a huggin' me... As when she held me then. And I hear her voice a humin'... To me as in days or yore... When she used to rock me fast asleep... Outside the cabin door..."_

 _Sherry was asleep by the time he got to the end._

 _William looked up at his wife. She was looking at the little baby in William's protective arms, not saying a word. He smiled._

 _"Hey," he said._

 _"Hey."_

 _"You're working?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _He nodded._

 _Annette's face started to twist up. She was going to cry._

 _"What's wrong?" William asked, concerned._

 _Annette started to sob._

 _"She looks like..." she said, choking. "... she looks like..."_

 _"... you," William finished._

 _He caught her gaze. His face was gentle. "She looks like you." He grinned and admired the baby again. "Good thing, too. If I believed in God, I'd thank him."_

 _William stood up and walked over to the crib. He lay the baby down, then turned to Annette. He walked over to her. "Come here," he said, collecting her in his arms. "Come here."_

 _Annette put her head against his chest and continued to cry softly._

 _"I'm sorry..." she said weakly._

 _"Shh..." he soothed. "She looks like you, darling. She's pretty and perfect... just like you..."_

 **Twenty-Nine**

He's waiting for her to return.

She wanted to go out, she said, just for a walk, to do some sight seeing. It finally stopped raining, after two weeks straight of steady downpours, and she wanted to take advantage of it. He's done many things to keep occupied in the meantime. He watched a couple of movies; Predator, and Blade Runner (with the voice-over). He listened to a couple of CDs he hasn't heard in a while. The music brought back memories. Most of them were fond ones. That's the good thing about owning music. He'll never purchase something that stirs up the melancholic past. He picked up his favourite book and re-read the passages that struck a chord with him all those years ago, when he was first introduced to it. He does that with novels he likes. He'll find the most poignant chapters and read them, over and over again.

She went out at two in the afternoon.

It's after eleven.

Ever since Rebecca had a fire built for her, he's wanted to do the same. He's wanted to enjoy a fire, all to himself, on a night like this. The flames are slowly dying away now. He thinks of roasting marshmallows. He hasn't eaten a toasted marshmallow in years. He remembers putting one on the end of a stick on a State sponsored camping trip. He remembers watching it catch on fire and waiting for the perfect moment to blow out the flame. He remembers how sticky they could get, and how they had to be eaten right away in order to be properly enjoyed. He remembers sitting in Ma'am Eunice's lap, at eight years old, and listening to her raspy, lovely voice reverberate through her chest. When Rebecca told him she'd be stepping out, he didn't mind. He wanted to sit down and think about all of these things, without having to answer any questions, without having to worry about the expression on his face.

But she still isn't back yet.

He stares at the fireplace and watches the flames become glowing embers.

Memory is a dangerous thing. Memory will haunt every choice he makes, for the rest of his life. It won't do him any good now, to sit down and think about the past. And yet he does. He can't help it. Try as he might, he can't escape it. He can still hear the songs Ma'am Eunice used to sing to him, when he was alone and bawling in his room. He still remembers the taste of her peanut butter pecan cookies, and the things she said to him to get him to smarten up and act respectfully. He smiles. She really knew what was going on with him, every step of the way. She never once let him feel sorry for himself. She never once put up with his bad behaviour. For listening to her, for taking her advice, he was rewarded with so many things he hadn't felt until then.

Before Ma'am Eunice, he never felt friendship.

He never felt valuable, or cherished.

He never felt loved.

And then she left.

He looks up at the window and sees that it's streaked with rain. It's pouring outside again, and Rebecca didn't take an umbrella when she left. He knows she'll be cold when she arrives again. He knows she'll be drenched. He remembers the first moment he laid eyes on her, all those years ago, when his teammates put their trust in him, before he betrayed them. Rebecca Chambers; smart, and beautiful, with a soft, lilting voice and optimistic demeanour. He wanted her the first moment he saw her. He wanted to hold that tiny body next to his, to feel her thick, short hair in his fingers, to look into her limpid green eyes and see her angelic smile. The memory of her, at eighteen, compels him to call one of his staff members. He wants to make sure Rebecca, his Rebecca, is comfortable when she returns.

"Yes sir?"

"Do we have any hot chocolate?"

"Yes sir."

"See to it that a cup is brought in for her. Keep an eye out."

"Yes sir."

The staff member leaves.

Albert Wesker sits back against the couch and watches the last of the embers go out. A thin trail of smoke rises up, signalling their expiration. Memories weave in and out of his head. Most of them are bad. But some of them are good. The good ones almost always include her. He remembers their early conversations, before she found the one grain of perceived goodness in him and decided to turn it into something more. He remembers their later talks, after he allowed her to make a connection with him. He remembers their fights. Most of all, he remembers their nights together, in his penthouse. Every curve of her body, every inch of soft, delicate skin, every whimper and sigh. The memory of her taste flows over his tongue so vividly, as if she were right there, spread out before him, calling his name.

His real name, maybe.

He lowers his chin.

She hasn't done that. It's good of her, to wait until he's ready. She doesn't have to. She can blurt it out at any time, even if he's begged her to let it be. She can write it down on bright yellow post-it notes and leave it around for him to find. She can accidentally let it slip when she addresses him. But she doesn't. It's important to her that he want to know what it is. That he's ready to identify with it. And the thought of that now strikes him as deeply remarkable. It's a kind of respect he's not used to. His staff, his fellow researchers at Arklay, at the Mansion, they treated him with respect because they were afraid of him. He had the kind of power over them that, had he chosen to wield it, could have cost them infinitely more than their jobs. Rebecca, though, is respectful because she cares about him.

Because she loves him.

She's told him so.

Perhaps tonight, when she returns, he'll be ready to learn what it is. Perhaps tonight, he'll be able to say it too.

At eleven thirty, the front door opens cautiously. He looks up at the doorway, and soon Rebecca appears in it. She's soaked from the rain, as he was, too, only recently. Her face is pale, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks at him, and he gives her a small smile of welcome.

She smiles back, but not the way she usually does.

She takes off her boots.

"Hello," he says.

"Hello."

"You've been gone a while."

"Yeah."

"Where did you go?"

She looks at him.

"The Altes Museum."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Really. I haven't been in ages."

"It's beautiful," she says.

"Maybe we'll go again, together."

She nods.

"Yeah."

A soft knock is heard at the living room door. The staff member comes in, with a mug of hot chocolate on a tray. He sets it down on the coffee table, then leaves quickly.

She looks down at it. "Thank you," she says softly.

"I thought you'd like some. I thought you'd be cold."

"Yeah."

"You're cold?"

"A little."

He stands up.

"I'll have them start up another fire."

"No, no, that's okay. It's alright. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

He looks at her carefully.

She's shivering.

"Dear heart..."

She looks at him.

"Yeah?"

He looks down at the cup.

"Come and drink this, and tell me about your day."

She nods.

She walks over to the coffee table, in front of the couch. She brushes against him.

Then she leans her head on his chest.

His arms reach around her, collect her into a gentle embrace.

She holds him, lets him hold her.

He wants to say it.

He thinks now, now is the time to say it.

He turns his face towards her, and his lips lightly brush the top of her ear.

He stops then, and inhales.

Deeply.

His jaw tightens. He turns, and whispers in her ear. "I can smell him on you, Rebecca."

Rebecca starts to shudder. Her legs get weak beneath her. She'd fall to the ground, if he wasn't there, holding her up.

 **Thirty**

Lying in bed with Jill Valentine is the only place Chris Redfield ever really wants to be.

She's just the best.

Jill always sleeps on her back. Even when she's resting, she looks like she'll jump up at any moment and start fighting. She always falls asleep first. He doesn't mind. It gives him the chance to look at her undisturbed. He can stare all he wants, and she won't be embarrassed, she won't hide her face or swat at him. For all their joking around, Chris values the quiet moments he spends with her the most. The moments where they're both just staring off into space, and her head is on his shoulder. He especially loves it when she's affectionate without him having to drop a few hints in her direction. When she comes up behind him and puts her arms around his waist. Those are the best times. They remind him of how lucky he is.

Jill Valentine, sleeping on her back in Chris Redfield's bed in the abandoned bomb shelter, doesn't look like she'd be able to kick the living daylights out of any monster that crosses her path. She doesn't look like she can haul a giant gun around with her to annihilate evil. But she can. She has. That's what's great about watching her sleep right now. She's beautiful, and vulnerable, and he wouldn't dare disturb her because she'd probably punch him in the head. He doesn't know what he did right, to deserve her.

Chris looks over at the clock on the night table. It's almost four in the morning. The emergency lights, that are all along the floor boards around the room and emit a greenish glow, can never be turned off. Tonight the lack of complete darkness is keeping Chris awake. He looks at Jill Valentine's small nose and full lips and lightly closed lids, and she looks like some kind of angel come down from heaven to spend the night. He'd tell her so if someone assured him she wouldn't call him an asshole for it. Jill doesn't take compliments well. It's almost as if she's tired of them. As if she gets them all the time and just wants to be left alone; as if she doesn't believe them.

Chris hasn't been able to get close to Jill until earlier tonight. She gave him an ultimatum: try to understand, or fuck off. He didn't take too kindly to it. They fought. He sulked. He didn't speak to her, even when she tried to get him to talk to her. But Chris knows he can't keep that up. He knows, deep down, it's a miracle she's stayed so loyal to him for this long. A girl like Jill Valentine can get any guy she wants. She can have someone smart, someone rich, someone who can give her everything she desires. And she deserves it too, after all she's been through. Still, the only guy she wants is him. Chris shakes his head.

No on can tell me I'm not one lucky bastard.

He puts his hand on her forehead and sweeps the stray hairs out of her face. She stirs a little before she wakes up. When she opens her eyes she gasps, because in the light she can't tell who he is, and tries to sit up. He puts his other hand on her shoulder and shushes her. She takes a swing at him, but he anticipated her greeting and easily blocks her fist. After a minute she realizes where she is, and who he is, and relaxes.

"Asshole!" she hisses. "I thought you were some crazy person!"

"Yeah, I know."

She looks at him. He won't rib back with her, so she thinks something's wrong.

"Are you alright?"

He nods.

"Jilly..?"

"Yeah?"

He looks away, at the clock.

"I love you."

"I know," she says with a wide grin. "I can tell."

"No, Jill, I mean I love you." He looks at her. "I love you for real."

She smirks.

"Thanks."

He scowls at her, then rises out of bed. She watches him, concerned.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Chris..."

He takes a couple of steps away from the bed. He's only wearing his shorts. He tries to find his clothes in the emergency glow. "Chris?"

He ignores her. He wasn't in the mood to joke, and she couldn't tell in the darkness. He thinks it's his fault, for behaving the way he has for so many years.

The boy who cried wolf.

"Chris!" she says, exasperated. He can tell she's worried now. He turns and looks at her. "What's wrong?"

"I wanted to talk to you seriously."

She folds her arms across her chest. "I'm listening," she says. Her tone is gentler than her posture.

"I wanted to tell you I promise."

"Promise what?"

He looks at her.

"I promise I'll try. I'll try and understand. I'll try and understand everything I can."

She smiles.

"You'll lay off Claire?" He nods. "You'll lay off Leon too?"

"Leon really bugs me, Jilly..."

"You'll lay off Leon too?" she repeats.

He lets out an irritated sigh.

"Yeah, I'll lay off him too. But if he asks for it he's gonna get it."

"Only if he asks for it," Jill says with a grin.

"I promise."

"And?"

"And what?" he shrugs.

Her eyes have adjusted to the light. She finds his face.

It's confirmed; he has no idea what she's talking about.

"Rebecca?" she says.

Chris huffs and looks off to the side of the room. An old movie poster is still there on the wall, held up with chipping, brown tape.

"Yeah, Rebecca too. I promise. I promise for you, Jill. It's not gonna be easy, just so you know."

"I didn't think it would be."

They look at each other.

She pats the empty space next to her.

He rolls his eyes and acts like it's a chore to get back into bed with her. But it's never a chore to get into bed with Jill.

He puts his arms around her, and she leans her cheek against his chest. He watches her shoulders rise and fall. Her hand caresses his stomach. "Jilly?"

"Yeah?"

"If I ever turn into a zombie, I want you to shoot me."

She laughs.

"In a second."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. You got it. No questions asked."

She rubs her cheek on his skin.

"I'm serious, Jill."

She squeezes his side. "If something happens and that Hollum guy gets me, you take me out, alright?"

"Shut up, Chris."

"Don't even think twice about it."

"Shut up."

"It's important."

"It's important that you shut up," Jill says, a little more sternly than she would have liked.

He looks down at her.

"What?"

"No one's gonna get you," she says.

"You never know."

"I know," she says. "I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know everything."

He scoffs.

"You're just a girl, what do you know?" he jokes.

She grabs onto his side and starts squeezing.

"I know where your special tickle spot is," she says.

He jerks out of the way and chuckles.

"Don't tell the bad guys where my special tickle spot is," he says.

"No? What'll you give me for my silence, Redfield?" she asks.

"Anything you want! Anything you want!"

She stops. "I want you to shut the fuck up," she says. He pretends to zip his lips and throw away the key. She smiles. "So I can say whatever I want now, right?" she asks. He nods. "You won't talk back?" He shakes his head. "Good." She folds her hands and puts them on his chest, then leans her head on them. She gazes up at him. Her eyes are bright, even in the dimness, highlighted in emerald. "No one's gonna get you," she says. "Because you're mine. And I'll protect you. Or I'll die trying. And you shut up about getting caught, or I'll tell Leon where your special tickle spot is." Chris wrinkles his nose and scowls at her. "You don't want me to tell Leon where your special tickle spot is, do you?"

"I'll kick his..."

"Hey!" she interrupts. "You can't talk back, remember?"

He grins, shakes his head and looks away. "That's right, obey me," she says.

She slides her hands over his chest. One trails its way down his stomach, disappears beneath the sheets. Chris follows it with his eyes. He sighs when she finds him, when she touches him with her fingertips, to let him know what she wants.

"I love you too," she whispers.

Soldiers and lovers.

Tomorrow, the two of them go to pick up Cumberland.

He's discovered the cure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Regarding Chapter 35**

When I first published these stories, I thought it went without saying that some of the relationships presented are unhealthy and abusive. Then I was accused of writing stories about women who like to be raped.

That accusation is fundamentally untrue, and I unequivocally deny it.

Wesker and Rebecca's relationship is, at times, abusive, and make no mistake: Wesker rapes Rebecca in Chapter 35. She's unable to fully consent to sex with him, because true consent can never be given if there will be repercussions when a person says "no" (and yes, repercussions include emotional manipulation as well). The rape doesn't stop being a rape when she changes her tone of voice or when she implies that she's okay with what's going on. It's still rape. It's not sexy. It's not romantic. It was never meant to be. Back when this story was first published, I thought that went without saying. I thought it would spark important discussion with the readers. I was wrong.

I do not condone sexual violence against anyone. At all. Ever. There is no justification for rape.

In a later chapter, Rebecca becomes the predator. This doesn't mean that what happens to her in Chapter 35 is null and void. Life is complicated. Victims and perpetrators can sometimes be one and the same.

I encourage anyone who is in an abusive relationship to please get help by contacting your local rape crisis line or women's shelter. Talk to someone you love and trust. Take care of yourself, any way you know how. Please.

 **Thirty-One**

Billy doesn't think she'll arrive. It's well past two o'clock, and Rebecca's punctual. At least, the Rebecca he knew way back then was punctual. He can't be sure now. But every minute that passes convinces him he'll never see her again. She knows he's in Germany now, and he's close enough to touch. If she doesn't show up, it's official: he'll never get the chance to remember how good it feels to hold her.

He's standing on the stone steps in front of the museum. He's never actually been inside, but the hotel he's staying at has plenty of brochures in English. He took the time to study them before coming. If conversation fails, he thought, he can always talk about the museum and the priceless works of art that are housed inside. He's hoping, maybe foolishly, that their reunion won't deteriorate into just another history lesson. At this moment, the only history he's concerned with is theirs.

Billy's running through every possible scenario, trying to prepare himself. If she does show, she might just want to stay outside, to sit on the steps and berate him for leaving her alone for all those years. She might want to go inside and take a look at everything, staying silent all the while. Or maybe they'll have the kind of date that a lot of people, ex-couples, ex-lovers, have when there's that much water under the bridge. Stilted conversation while their minds race. Anxious glances at their watches. Furrowed brows as they try to think of an excuse to leave. Maybe it will be polite, and empty.

When he looks up from the crumpled brochure, he catches sight of her. She's seen him, is walking towards him. She kept her promise.

Billy straightens up and stands perfectly still as Rebecca, in her high-heeled boots, short skirt, and long jacket, approaches him with a steady cadence. He doesn't take his eyes off her, but she can't keep her gaze on him up for long. She looks around her, at everyone else visiting the museum, as if she's being watched. She looks down at her boots as they climb the stairs to join him. When she's finally standing in front of him, she looks him in the eye. Neither of them knows what to do.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey."

"Have you been inside yet?"

"No. I was waiting for you."

"I'm sorry I'm late."

"That's alright."

"Do you wanna go in?"

"Honestly?"

She sighs and nods, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "No."

"What do you want to do then?" she asks.

He shrugs. She waits for him to think of something.

"Do you wanna walk... somewhere?"

She looks across the concrete square.

"It's gonna rain again."

"Yeah."

"Okay then," she says. "Let's go now."

They cross the square, with no particular destination in mind. They walk along in silence. The day is heavily overcast, without a trace of sunlight. The air's chilly. Rebecca tightens her jacket around herself and jams her hands in her pockets. Billy's jacket is still open. He's cold too, but he doesn't want her to think he is. He's concentrating on questions to ask her. If he doesn't prepare them now he'll forget all the things he wants to know. And he still doesn't know if this, now, is the last time he'll ever see her.

"Why were you late?"

"I had some things to finish."

"Like what?"

"A bunch of things," she says. "Different things."

"Where are you staying?"

"I can't tell you that."

He turns his head and looks at her. She's staring at the horizon.

"Why not?"

"Because I can't."

He presses his lips together and tries to stay calm.

"You staying with him?"

"'Him'?" she asks and looks at him. "What do you mean?"

"The new guy you're with," he says, and there's a tinge of jealousy in his voice.

"Yes. And he's not a 'new' guy."

"How long have you been with him?"

"A little over a year."

"What's his name?"

She stops suddenly.

"Why do you want to know?"

"It's a simple question."

"It's none of your business."

"I just wanted to know his name."

"What good will it do you?"

Billy glares at her.

"Don't pick a fight with me, Rebecca, alright? I don't wanna fight."

She scowls, turns away and keeps walking. He follows her.

A light rain begins to fall. It's not enough for them to run for cover, so they keep going, and the droplets bead up on their shoulders. Billy's mind is running a mile a minute. He's second guessing the questions he had planned, because he doesn't want to make her angry. The fact that she's walking with him in Berlin is more than he could have ever hoped for; her presence is worth him biting his tongue. Some of the questions, he thinks, might cut her a little too close. He can accept being left with mysteries. He can't accept another knock-down, drag-out fight.

"Where are you staying?" she asks after an extended silence.

"At a hotel downtown."

"Is it nice?"

"Yeah, it's pretty nice."

"Good."

"I don't sit on the bedspread," he says.

"Huh?"

"I always take off the bedspread," he says. "They never wash them. I don't wanna get lice."

He catches the small grin on her face.

"That's a good idea."

"Yup."

"Whoever gave you that idea's brilliant."

"Yeah, she is."

They don't have to look at each other; they just stop walking.

"Why didn't you come back?" she asks softly.

"They had me under surveillance," he says. "They knew we were meeting."

"How'd you find that out?"

"I bribed the right people."

She nods.

"You were gone for a long time. A very long time."

"Yeah," he says.

"Four years."

"Yeah."

"I thought you were dead."

"You did?"

She nods again.

"I didn't at first. I thought there's no way you'd ever get caught. But you didn't come back. You didn't call. Nothing."

"I wanted to, angel."

She closes her eyes when he says the word. "I wanted to."

"You didn't."

"I thought you'd wait for me," he finally has the guts to say. "I thought I meant something to you."

She looks at him again. She's hurt, and angry.

"You did mean something to me. You still do. But you expected me to wait for how long? What would have been enough for you?"

"I was coming back for you," he says, his voice getting gruff, getting defensive. "And you didn't believe it, after all I said to you."

"How was I supposed to know that?" she snaps.

"You were supposed to know that because you knew me."

"The Billy I knew would've done anything to see me again."

"How many times do you want me to say it?" he exclaims. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry! I didn't want you to get hurt!"

"I thought you had enough courage!" she says loudly, almost yelling.

"I thought you had enough integrity!"

Rebecca turns on her heel and starts to walk away. "Fuck, don't walk away from me Rebecca!" Billy yells after her. The other people on the street turn their heads and watch him catch up with her. He puts his hand on her shoulder and she vehemently shrugs him off.

"Fuck you!"

"I can't apologize for it anymore!" he says, scrambling to stand in front of her, to block her path. "There's nothing more to tell you! That's what happened!"

"You could have done something to let me know you still cared! You could have done something to let me know you were alright!"

"Why are you with someone else?" he demands. "Why, when you knew how I felt?"

"You won't understand, so why should I explain it to you?"

"No, I won't understand!" he admits.

He finally gets in her way. She stops walking.

"I was sick of pretending you didn't exist! I was sick of hiding!"

"Sick of hiding?" he says. "Bullshit! You're hiding now!"

"I'm not hiding from anyone!"

"Tell me his name!"

"Fuck you!"

"Tell me who he is!"

"No!"

"No, you're not hiding now, are you?"

Rebecca glowers at him.

It's a challenge, and she accepts it.

"It's Albert."

Billy's stomach lurches into his throat.

"Albert Wesker?"

"That's right."

He nods.

"There you go, Rebecca," he mutters. "If that's not hiding, I don't know what is."

"Who are you to judge?" she growls.

"How is being on the run with him any different from me? It's the same fucking thing!"

"It's not the same thing!" she says.

"Yeah it is! It's convenient for you so you run with it! And waiting for me to come back, and you knew I'd come back, you had to have, took too fucking long or whatever..."

"Don't you dare!"

"... and you let yourself forget everything. So who meant more to who, huh?"

"Shut up!"

"I never once fucked someone else! Not once! I never wanted anyone else but you! I've got the callouses to prove it!"

They look at each other.

Out of nowhere, they start to giggle.

It feels incredible.

"My right hand's sore," he says.

"I'll bet," she laughs.

He opens his arms, and she steps up close to him.

Embraces him.

He leans his cheek on the top of her head.

The pedestrians stop looking and continue on their ways.

Billy and Rebecca keep walking. They walk in silence, because anything they say can, and will, be used against them, the way it's always used against them whenever they get together. Everything they've ever said to each other carries the most incredible weight, because their time together was always too brief, too passionate. Billy holds Rebecca's hand, and she lets him. Finally, after ages of walking, he stops. "This is where I'm staying," he says, pointing to the hotel a little way ahead of them.

"Okay."

"It's nice."

"Don't sit on the bedspread," she warns with a smile.

"I won't."

Their smiles melt away. They don't move.

"Come up with me," he says, softly.

She shakes her head.

"I can't."

"Please."

"I can't, Billy."

He nods.

"I know."

She steps towards him, and they slip into each other's embrace. They don't let go. "Rebecca..."

"I can't..."

"... please come up with me..."

"... Billy..."

"... I miss you so much..."

"You need a girlfriend," she tries to joke.

"I need you."

"I can't."

He runs his hands up and down, over her back.

"Angel..."

She shakes her head, tussling her hair against his chest. "... I miss you..."

"Don't."

"I miss you bad..."

"Don't, Billy."

"Come upstairs with me."

Rebecca holds him tighter.

It's her choice to make.

And she makes it.

"Billy..."

"Yeah?"

She raises her head. She doesn't have to say anything. He takes her hand, and leads her through the front door of the hotel.

And soon her naked body is beneath him, and her legs are wrapped around him, and he fucks her the way he's always wanted to; slowly, gently, and with all the time in the world.

Damn the questions.

Damn the mission.

"I love you..."

"... Billy..."

"I love you..."

He wipes the stray tear off her cheek.

"...don't let go..." she begs. "... don't let go..."

 **Thirty-Two**

 _The night before Rebecca left for Europe, she was sitting on her bed and flipping through her photo album. It was a large album, thick with pictures that were either pressed into the pages or stuck in between because there was no space for them. She loved taking pictures, especially of her friends back home. She even snapped a couple during her first few days at the R.P.D. Most of them were of her team members. There was one of Enrico, holding a coffee cup and making a face to illustrate the bitter taste of swill they called coffee at the office; an extreme close up of Kenneth, grinning at her as widely as he could; a surprised Edward and Forest standing at the water cooler, unaware that Rebecca was about to snap a shot. Rebecca knew she should close the album and try to forget. But she always was a bit of a masochist._

 _Another picture was of Alpha team member Chris Redfield. He was sitting down at his desk and wearing Jill Valentine's hat. Jill was standing over him. Both of them were smiling. The corners of Rebecca's mouth turned up. She admired the both of them; their strength, their courage. If she could be even half the soldiers they were, she'd be happy. She wanted another chance to prove herself, now that she knew that evil, real, terrible evil, existed; now that she knew there was such a thing as monsters. Just as the thought occurred to her, she turned the page._

 _There it was; the picture of Captain Albert Wesker, sitting at his desk._

 _The minute she saw it, the large bruise on her chest started to throb. She forgot that she had taken it the first week she started at the R.P.D. She wanted to get everyone's picture, and he was so camera shy she had to beg him to let her take his photo. He finally relented, but he kept his sunglasses on. She didn't want to ask him to take them off; she didn't want to rub him the wrong way. Staring at the picture then, alone in her room, wasn't as difficult as she would have thought. She glared at it, as if glaring at it could somehow make him feel how much she despised him. She mourned the loss of all the innocent people who died in that tragedy; she even mourned for the scientists, who, despite perpetrating that horrible blight, died in absolute agony. But she didn't mourn Captain Wesker's loss. She was glad he was gone. She only hoped that, in those last few moments, he suffered as much as they had._

 _Lost in her reverie, Rebecca was startled by the sound of a pebble hitting her apartment window. She abruptly closed the photo album and got up to look out at the darkness. Below, in the courtyard, she could see a familiar figure standing in the moonlight. He had come, just as he said he would. Rebecca waved at him, then stood up and headed for the door to her dorm room. She stole a quick glance at herself in the mirror before she stepped into the hallway and down the main staircase. He had anticipated her arrival, and she found him standing on the front steps, waiting for her. "I'm allowed to have visitors, you know," she said. "You could have hit the buzzer."_

 _"Thought I needed a more dramatic entrance," Billy replied. "Being a fugitive and all."_

 _"Shhh!" she hissed. "Stop it!" She rolled her eyes. "Come on up."_

 _Billy followed her back up to her room. "I thought you finished school," he said._

 _"It's subsidized housing for single women," she said, opening the door to her room._

 _"Nice! So there are only single girls around here?"_

 _"Some of them are mothers fleeing abusive relationships, you pervert," she said._

 _He smiled._

 _"Alright, alright, I'm not here to cruise anyway, don't get so worked up."_

 _She led him inside and closed the door. He took a long look around her room. It was tiny and crammed full of stuff, but everything was neat and tidy. Rebecca put the photo album under her bed, then sat down. "So you're leaving tomorrow?" he asked._

 _"Yeah. I'm gonna be gone for a while. I wanted you to know where I can be reached, and I need to know how to reach you."_

 _He looked at her, confused._

 _"Why would you need to reach me?"_

 _"In case I find something that'll clear your name," she said, as if he should have known why._

 _Billy shook his head._

 _"You're not gonna find anything, I guarantee it."_

 _"I'd rather try first before you shoot it down," she said, annoyed._

 _"The only thing that would clear me is the order from the guys in charge telling my commanding officer to pin the whole thing on me," he said, "and I doubt that exists. The Marines have paper shredders, you know."_

 _"It might still exist."_

 _"There's no way it exists," he said, shaking his head. "So that means it's just my word against theirs. And guess whose word they believe."_

 _Rebecca looked at him._

 _"So you didn't do it."_

 _He looked away. "Did you?"_

 _"Why do you want to know so bad?" he asked._

 _"It's important."_

 _"What's the difference whether I pulled the trigger or not? Doesn't change the fact that those people are dead." He gazed out the window, at the full moon in the sky. "All of them... they're still dead..."_

 _Rebecca didn't look away. She looked at him, at where he stood leaning against her dresser, and tried to suss out the truth behind the bravado. His hair was still long then, clean and slicked back. He was wearing a t-shirt, so part of the large tattoo on his arm was covered up. His hazel eyes were dark with worry and rage; worry, because he didn't want to see Rebecca fight that evil alone; rage, because he could have stayed with her, protected her, if his freedom hadn't been stolen from him. Rebecca wasn't thinking about that._

 _She was thinking about the fact that he could play piano._

 _"Did you take piano lessons when you were little?" she asked._

 _He smirked._

 _"Yeah. My mom made me practice every day after school. Later on I learned guitar. I like playing the guitar over playing the piano."_

 _She smiled._

 _"I'd play more if I had a piano," she said. "But it's difficult to fit one in here."_

 _"Yeah, shit, your place is small," he said, looking around again. "No wonder you're so skinny. If you ate a full meal you wouldn't be able to get through the door."_

 _She chuckled._

 _"Guess so, huh?" She took a deep breath. "So how do I reach you?"_

 _He looked down at his boots._

 _"You don't. I reach you."_

 _"I have to wait for you to get in touch with me?" she asked, dismayed._

 _"Yeah. That way if anything happens you can't tell them anything."_

 _"I wouldn't tell them anything!" she said, exasperated. "How could you think that?"_

 _"I didn't say you would," he replied, unsure of why she was getting so upset. "I'm just saying it's better that you're not able to say anything. Just in case. You can't let anything slip."_

 _"I wouldn't let anything slip!"_

 _"I'm not saying you would, I'm just..." He rolled his eyes. "Just forget it."_

 _"No, I wanna know what you mean by that!"_

 _"I mean that the people who are after me are used to getting what they want at all cost," he said. "And you're not just a commodity. I want to make sure you're safe, that's all."_

 _"I know how to handle myself!"_

 _"Yeah, yeah, you know how to handle yourself, good for you," he said. "But that's the way it's gonna be. I'm not risking your life, no matter how important it makes you feel."_

 _"You jerk!" she snapped. "I'm not asking because I wanna feel important! I'm asking because I wanna see you again!"_

 _They looked at each other. He shrugged._

 _"Why would you want that?"_

 _Her gaze narrowed. She didn't answer him._

 _"Look," she said, reaching for a pencil and a piece of paper. "This is my mobile number. I'll have it for a while if the phone company doesn't start charging all those stupid hidden fees they like to tack on."_

 _She held it out to him. He hesitated, then took it. "Right," she said. "That's it. Keep in touch."_

 _She stood up and went to the door._

 _"Why are you mad?" he asked._

 _"Why do you think?"_

 _"I dunno."_

 _"Because you asked me why I'd want to see you again!"_

 _"Well, why would you?"_

 _Her face turned red._

 _"Because I care about you, that's why!"_

 _"Seeing me again is asking for trouble," he said flatly. "We already said goodbye. I'm sorry, but that should've been the end of it."_

 _"Then go," she said. She put her hand on the doorknob._

 _"Don't be mad."_

 _"Too late, I'm already mad."_

 _He shook his head, and a small grin snuck onto his face._

 _"Don't be mad. If I'm going now, I want you to smile."_

 _"We already said goodbye. Pretend I smiled then."_

 _He looked up at her, smiling wider._

 _"Christ, you're a drama queen. You gonna win an Oscar one day?"_

 _"Fuck you."_

 _"Fine, don't smile."_

 _Rebecca looked down at her shoes and bit her lip. "Don't smile. Stop it. Stop smiling. Stop it," he goaded. Each time he did, her smile grew._

 _"Don't," she said, covering her face._

 _He stepped towards her, put his hands around her small wrists and pulled them away from her face._

 _"You've got a nice smile."_

 _"No thanks to you."_

 _"Oh, that really hurts," he said, feigning a broken heart._

 _"You're a jerk!"_

 _He took both her hands in his and swung them to and fro._

 _"Alright, is this it?" he asked._

 _"Call me," she said, looking across the room. Her smile had faded._

 _"You okay?"_

 _She nodded. He could tell she wasn't. He tilted her face up to his. "You're not okay."_

 _"I'm worried."_

 _"For me?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _"I'll be alright. I'm worried about you."_

 _"I'll be alright too."_

 _"Then why are we worrying?"_

 _Their eyes met._

 _"Because," she said._

 _"Because."_

 _"Because I don't want you to go."_

 _"I have to."_

 _"Now?"_

 _He looked away._

 _"No... not right now..."_

 _He put his hand on her cheek._

 _"Billy..."_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _She didn't say anything. He looked at her, at her big green eyes._

 _"How much time do you have?"_

 _He knew what she was asking him._

 _"A little while."_

 _She nodded._

 _Her hands slid up his arms, over his shoulders. He drew her waist close to him, and his hands rested on the small of her back. He leaned down, and she tilted her face up to him and felt him gingerly kiss her lips. She heard him sigh. He pulled away a little to look at her, to touch his forehead to hers when he was overcome with how beautiful she was. "I've wanted to do that for a while," he said._

 _"Me too," she confessed._

 _He nodded._

 _"I shouldn't fall for you, you know."_

 _"I know."_

 _He kissed her again, and again, and again. Her face in his large hands, she closed her eyes and felt his touch, smelled his skin, listened to the sound of his mouth moving, his lips caressing her cheeks, her chin. She sighed when he drew her closer to him, when he began to kiss her passionately, desperately, knowing he wouldn't see her for a long time. And she tried as hard as she could to commit the feel of his body pressed to hers to memory. She tried as hard as she could to keep from falling in love._

 _But it didn't work. She fell._

 _"Billy..." she whispered._

 _"Yeah?"_

 _She looked up at him._

 _"Stay with me tonight."_

 _He looked at her tiny, single bed._

 _"You got it."_

 _His hands dipped down, over her back, and he pulled her shirt off, over her head. He could see her nipples beneath her white lacy bra, and slid his hand over one of her breasts to feel the beauty beneath his roughened palm. Her soft skin goosepimpled at his touch, and she closed her eyes. There he was, behind the curtain of her mind, running alongside her, fighting alongside her, the two of them partners, together. When she opened them again his lips were on her neck, his teeth gently biting her flesh, leaving his mark. She felt his strength, as well as his vulnerability, in her arms, her hands, her fingers. He let out the softest of groans, and she could tell he was hardening in anticipation._

 _She had to tell him._

 _"Billy..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _"Billy..."_

 _He looked down at her, held her close. "... this is... this is my first... time..."_

 _He nodded._

 _"I'll be careful..."_

 _Somehow, neither of them knew how exactly, they found their way onto Rebecca's bed. Somehow they pulled off each other's clothes while they kissed, while their arms were still locked around each other, Rebecca's black panties growing more and more damp the more Billy stripped. His torso exposed, his shorts were snug and clung to his hips, his ass. Rebecca ran her hands over his rump, and he smiled as he saw how turned on she had become, how eager she was to give everything she had to him. Her hands moved to his erection, and Billy purred when she began to stroke him through his shorts. "Yeah..." he said, his voice low, "... do that... that feels good..."_

 _"Yeah?" she asked._

 _"... yeah..."_

 _She kept going, happy knowing she was pleasing him. "... ahh... yeah... yeah... don't stop..."_

 _He took one of her hands, put it over her head to open her up to him, and he felt her breasts, massaged them, leaned down and kissed them through the cups of her bra. Rebecca moaned softly. She had been touched before, of course, but not like that, with the promise of more. Every time Billy touched her she thought about what was to come. She thought about how it would feel, to be taken. She trembled so ardently he thought she was cold. But she was sweating, in the small room, on the tiny bed with him, and he knew it wasn't that. He smiled, then reached around her, unhooked her bra, lifted her hips and pulled off her panties. When she was naked and lying in wait, he pulled off his shorts and leaned back, so that she could see every part of him before he made love to her._

 _Rebecca closed her eyes as Billy lay poised above her. She felt him stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, felt him kiss her. Every inch of her skin begged to be touched, but he didn't move. Instead, he started to whisper. "Rebecca..." She didn't speak; she whimpered, and felt herself grow wetter by the sound of his voice. "... angel... you're so beautiful, you know that?... you're beautiful..."_

 _"Billy..."_

 _"... so beautiful..."_

 _"Billy..."_

 _"... angel..."_

 _She moaned._

 _"Call me that..."_

 _"... call you angel?..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _"... I can do that..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _He urged her legs apart. She felt his length press against the mound of her sex._

 _"... my angel..."_

 _"... God Billy..."_

 _"... you want me now?..."_

 _"... yes... I want you now... I want you now..."_

 _He smiled._

 _"... I'm gonna go slowly..."_

 _"... yes..."_

 _"... okay?..."_

 _"... yeah... slowly..."_

 _She felt him, thick and hard, entice her body to open up to him. She drew in a breath as he glided forward, slowly, smoothly, taking the utmost care not to hurt or violate her. Just before he could enter her, he noticed she had grown anxious; every muscle in her body had tensed up to the point that she was shaking. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear._

 _"... Rebecca..."_

 _"... slowly..."_

 _"... angel..."_

 _"... Billy..."_

 _"... you want me?..."_

 _"... yes..."_

 _"... you want me to make love to you?..."_

 _"... yes..."_

 _She felt him nod against her cheek._

 _"... I'm gonna take you now..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _"... trust me..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _Again, he began to slide forward, as gently as before. Rebecca shut her eyes tight. She started to whimper when she felt him inch deeper and deeper, but he didn't stop. He wanted to know her, and it couldn't be helped. "... sorry angel..." Rebecca moaned quietly. "... I'm sorry angel... does it hurt?..."_

 _"... no..." she said, and in a way, it didn't._

 _"... am I hurting you?..."_

 _"... no..."_

 _"... it feels good for me, angel, it feels so good..."_

 _At the sound of his voice, his pleasure, Rebecca relaxed. She sighed as Billy finally glided deep inside her, as he grunted at how tight she felt around him. He wanted to lose his mind and groan shamelessly, because he had never felt anyone like Rebecca before. She was tight and wet, sweet, and hot, thin and lovely, beautiful, open, his virgin, his lover. Her mouth opened, and he kissed her as he started to thrust, his cock begging to be satisfied by her young body. In the haze of that evening, Rebecca watched Billy make love to her, watched him sit up and cradle her hips, watched him lean back and take everything he could from her, watched him give her everything she had been dreaming about. His fingers found her swollen and begging for release, and he stroked her gently in time with his hips._

 _"... oh..."_

 _"... yeah?..."_

 _"... God Billy..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _"... I love it..."_

 _"... yeah?..."_

 _"... I love you..."_

 _He closed his eyes._

 _"I love you too, angel..."_

 _"... God..."_

 _She arched her back. "... God Billy I love your body..."_

 _"... does it feel good?..."_

 _"... yes..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _"... does it feel good for you?..."_

 _He bit his lip, stifled a grunt._

 _"... feels so good..."_

 _"... make me come, Billy, please..."_

 _"... yeah..."_

 _"... please make me come..."_

 _He leaned over, kissed her, kept swirling his fingers, wet with her, around her, around the spot she loved the most. And before she knew it she was his, and her body seized up so tightly she thought she would die in his arms, and she shook and tumbled over the edge, yelping with every spasm that shot through her, whimpering as she clinched around him again and again. At the sight of her coming for him, all for him, he finally lost control. He closed his eyes and felt himself come deep, come for what seemed like ages inside his lover's body. He cried out her name as he released himself, and, when it was over, held her against him, determined to keep her with him always. The night had to come to an end, but not then. Not then._

 _It was a long time before Rebecca opened her eyes again. When she did, Billy was gazing down at her from above, caressing her cheeks with his knuckles. Covered in sweat, they looked at each other; their chests rose and fell gently with their breath. Neither one of them wanted to be the first to speak. In a perfect world, neither of them would have had to._

 _But it wasn't a perfect world._

 _"I have to go soon..." he said._

 _She nodded._

 _"Yeah..."_

 _She looked away. Her eyes were welling up with tears._

 _"... angel..."_

 _She shook her head, looked down at the floor. "... look at me..."_

 _She did. "It doesn't mean you'll never see me again. Okay? I'll come back. I promise."_

 _She nodded again, but it didn't make her feel any better. "Rebecca?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _He smiled at her._

 _"I'm coming back."_

 _"Okay."_

 _"I am."_

 _"You better."_

 _He chuckled._

 _"I will. Might take a while, but I will, always."_

 _She smiled. He kissed her._

 _An hour later, he was gone._

 **Thirty-Three**

 _William and Albert were looking at each other, late that night, after their first session with 'the woman'. William was sitting on his dorm room bed. His face was pale, but he had finally stopped shaking. Albert was leaning against the bathroom doorframe. His arms were folded across his chest. Both men had removed their lab jackets and tossed them into the facility laundry. They wanted to make sure the smell was completely boiled away before they had to wear them again._

 _"Christ," William muttered as he looked away, shoving his hand through his hair._

 _Albert nodded; he knew exactly what William was feeling._

 _"Yeah."_

 _"They didn't tell me about her before starting."_

 _"Me neither."_

 _"I hate being in the dark."_

 _"Yeah."_

 _William let out a breath and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He shook his head._

 _"They've made impressive advancements these past few decades. Very impressive."_

 _Albert stared at William's bookcase, at the rows upon rows of scientific volumes. They seemed harmless enough, but they weren't. Far from it._

 _"But?" he asked._

 _William caught his eye again. Albert was extremely perceptive. He could tell Will was troubled._

 _"But." William brought his hands together and started to wring them. "Have you ever seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?"_

 _"No," Albert said._

 _"Texas Chainsaw Massacre's a horror movie," William began, ignoring Albert's ignorance of such an infamous film. "It's about… exactly what the title suggests… There's one scene, with a young couple. The guy's gonna get killed, and the girl's next… she starts to fight… and the killer picks her up and slams her down on a meat hook… and she hangs there while he kills her boyfriend…" William's gaze narrowed as he remembered watching the scene in a darkened movie theatre. "And the whole time she's hanging there she's struggling to pull herself off the hook… she tries and tries, but she can't do it… she's helpless…"_

 _"Shit," Albert said. "Awful way to die."_

 _"The reason I bring it up is it made me realize something," William said. "It made me realize that people… all of us… we're all just flesh and blood and bone… we can get hurt… we can be tortured… we can be killed… You have to see it to really get what I'm talking about. But that woman today… made me remember that part." He looked up at Albert. "We're younger than her, you know."_

 _"Yeah, I know."_

 _William crawled back onto his bed and leaned against the headboard. He stared down at his hands, thought about what they'd done that day._

 _"Do you think she suffers?" he asked quietly._

 _Albert took a deep breath._

 _"Not being able to recognize anyone," he began in his soft southern drawl, "Not knowing where she is or what's being done to her… memories floating around in her head and her not being able to make sense of them… we better believe she suffers."_

 _They were quiet for a time. William kept his head down for the most part and stared at the itchy sheets on his bed, or glanced around at the posters on the walls or his bookcase. He listened for Albert to say something, but his partner didn't speak. One look at him told William he was lost in thought, unreachable. Normally he would have forced Albert to let him in on what he was thinking. That night, his curiosity didn't require satisfaction._

 _He just wanted escape, for a little while._

 _He leaned over and opened the top drawer of his night table, and reached for what was inside._

 _The second William opened up the little wooden box Albert saw its contents. "Where'd you get that?" he asked with a chuckle, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing._

 _"Bought it off Cumberland," Will replied._

 _"Cumberland smokes?"_

 _"Anything he can get his hands on."_

 _Albert laughed lightly._

 _"You're gonna smoke it in here?"_

 _"Yeah, why?"_

 _Albert shook his head, amused. William certainly had guts._

 _"What if they catch you with it?"_

 _"Slap on the wrist." He rolled a joint while Albert watched._

 _"Slap on the wrist," he echoed. "How can you smoke up now, after all that?"_

 _William looked up at him. He licked the edge of the rolling paper and pressed it closed._

 _"I wanna get the screaming out of my head."_

 _Albert looked away, and his grin slowly faded from his face._

 _Albert stepped away from the doorframe and started to pace around the room. William lit the joint up and took a long pull, held the smoke in his lungs, and watched. His eyes on the carpet, Albert was lost in thought, trying to make sense of the day's events. His back was straight, his fingers hooked into the back pockets of his pants. When he turned around, William noticed the top two buttons of his black shirt were undone, revealing his neck. William continued to take long, languid drags off the joint while watching his partner pace._

 _He didn't take his eyes away once._

 _"Wes?"_

 _Albert looked up._

 _William held the joint out to him._

 _"No way," he said with a smile, shaking his head. "I can't smoke that stuff."_

 _"You've tried?"_

 _"No, I just know I can't."_

 _"How do you know if you haven't tried it?"_

 _Albert chuckled. William's kept his hand poised, offering Albert a pull. "It's nice, I swear."_

 _"Nice!" Albert scoffed, still entertained. "I don't think I've ever heard it described like that."_

 _"Worst case scenario, you get paranoid. Best case scenario, you fall asleep dreaming of pizza."_

 _"Doesn't sound like much of a laugh."_

 _"Doesn't sound like it, no."_

 _But his offer still stood._

 _Albert hesitated, then rolled his eyes and took the joint from William's fingers._

 _"You're an enabler, you know that?"_

 _William watched the joint settle in Albert's grip._

 _"Ten bucks says you start coughing."_

 _"Ten bucks says shut the hell up," Albert smirked. William chuckled as his partner contemplated the joint. "Smells awful."_

 _"You get used to it."_

 _"You smoke this often?"_

 _William shrugged, but didn't answer. He wanted to make sure Albert inhaled. Albert put the joint to his lips and took a drag. He didn't cough. William smiled._

 _"I owe you ten bucks."_

 _Albert held the smoke in his lungs and shook his head. He exhaled slowly. "What do you think?"_

 _Albert sighed._

 _"If it'll take my mind off of things, I'm up for it."_

 _It wasn't long before the events of that day disappeared into fog. The air above William's bed was blue with smoke as they finished off the first joint and started on a second. They lay on their backs, on the thin double mattress, and stared up at the stuccoed ceiling. The higher they got, the more time seemed to slow down, the more they felt their arms and legs grow heavier and heavier, until they could hardly move, and didn't want to._

 _"Man…"_

 _"I'm so stoned," William remarked, chuckling._

 _"I think I am too…" Albert rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't have nothin' to compare it with though."_

 _"'Don't have nothin'!" William said happily. "I love it!"_

 _Albert passed the joint to William and started giggling._

 _"That was a slip up," he admitted._

 _"You're the farmer in the dell!"_

 _"Least I don't sound like an Ivy League snob!"_

 _"I can't help it if I have good upbringing," William said with a wide grin. "Good genes."_

 _"Blue jeans."_

 _"Blue jeans." They looked at each other and started laughing. "What the fuck are you talking about?"_

 _"You're the one who said blue jeans," Albert said, slurring his words._

 _"GOOD genes. Like, human genes."_

 _"Oh right… animals don't wear jeans."_

 _William pulled on the joint._

 _"Do you ever think about your parents?" he asked. "What they might be like?"_

 _Albert stared at the ceiling and shook his head._

 _"Not really."_

 _"Why not?"_

 _"I don't know."_

 _"My parents hate each other," William said. "They sleep in separate bedrooms."_

 _"Serious?"_

 _"Yeah, for years now."_

 _"Man…" Albert said with a solemn look on his face. "That's crazy. If I had a wife I'd fuck her every night before I went to sleep."_

 _Another peal of laughter._

 _"Me too, if she looked like Farah Fawcett."_

 _"Your mom looks like Farah Fawcett?"_

 _"No!"_

 _He passed the joint back to Albert, who took it and held it between his thumb and forefinger._

 _"I wish they told us about her," he said, staring at the embers. "Before we started. Prepared us."_

 _"Me too," William replied. "But we can't change anything now."_

 _"No, that's true."_

 _"Even if we wanted to."_

 _Albert's expression was serious._

 _"I feel like I'm being used."_

 _"You're not being used. It's your job."_

 _"That don't… doesn't make me feel better about it."_

 _"Bad day, that's all. We'll be better about it tomorrow."_

 _He looked at William._

 _"I forgot about that," he said._

 _William turned his head. "What were you like as a kid?"_

 _"Why?"_

 _"Just curious," William said._

 _Albert chuckled._

 _"Wimpy. I cried a lot."_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"Yup."_

 _"Me too."_

 _Albert smiled._

 _Someone understood._

 _"Serious?"_

 _"Uh-huh."_

 _"They picked on you?"_

 _"Not everyone, but a lot of kids did. That's what happens when you're poor. But I had a couple of good friends. I just stuck to them."_

 _"That's good."_

 _"You?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"Did you stick to your friends too?"_

 _"Didn't have any."_

 _William rolled his eyes. "I'm serious."_

 _"So am I."_

 _"You had to have at least one."_

 _"Not that I remember."_

 _William's gaze grew narrow._

 _Albert wasn't kidding._

 _"Wow."_

 _Albert giggled. "Sad, huh?" William didn't answer. Albert looked at him and stopped. "Honest, Will…" he said, stoned, vulnerable. "You're my only friend… only friend I ever had…"_

 _William took the joint and watched as Albert's eyes grew heavy and slowly closed. It was the first time his partner had mentioned anything so intimate about his childhood, and he didn't know what to say. He lay next to him, his head on his flattened pillow, and heard his words echo in his ear. Albert's breathing grew even and relaxed, and when William turned his head again, he saw that his partner was asleep._

 _"Wes?"_

 _Albert didn't answer. He nudged him gently. "Wes? Wake up." Albert was too out of it to respond. William bit his lip._

 _He still remembered everything Doctor Marcus had told him about his partner._

 _Carefully, he reached out and ran his hand gently over Albert's head, smoothing his hair back. Albert didn't move. William continued. Albert's hair was thick and soft, blonde, and even in the dim light of the dorm room it shone. Everything about him was perfect; his skin, his hands, his legs, everything was chiselled out of fine marble. William watched Albert's chest rise and fall with every breath, and marvelled that such a creature even existed. He wondered if Albert knew exactly what he was, if he ever clued in to the fact that he had been chosen, had been given one of the most precious gifts anyone could ever have been given. William envied him._

 _He despised him._

 _He loved him._

 _All at once._

 _Albert sighed in his sleep as William undid the third, fourth, and fifth buttons on Albert's shirt. He didn't stir as William ran his hands over Albert's chest, over his stomach, feeling every inch of his torso. William brought his hand to Albert's face, caressed his cheek, stroked his jaw. William thought of his partner's brilliance, of his beauty, of the things he'd be capable of when the last drops of regret and remorse had been squeezed out of him. He would have gladly traded places with him. Any day._

 _He wanted Albert to survive, and to suffer._

 _All at once._

 _He leaned in and kissed Albert's forehead, then looked at him._

 _Albert's eyes were open._

 _William watched Albert try to understand what was happening to him through the haze. The look on his face was one of confusion, of hurt, of anger. Unfazed, William spoke to him. "You should go to sleep," he said softly. "You need your rest."_

 _Albert's expression didn't change. William didn't seem to care. "I'll sleep in your room," he said, buttoning Albert's shirt again. He slipped his hand into Albert's front pocket and took out his dorm keys. "Goodnight."_

 _Albert heard William ease off the bed, heard him go to the door and open it, heard him slip into the hallway, close the door, and lock it once again. He closed his eyes._

 _And he would have remembered everything, in the morning, if it weren't for her._

 **Thirty-Four**

Leon is standing outside of Claire's room, down in the depths of yet another abandoned underground base. They've been here for a week, and none of them are happy about it. Both Chris and Jill have been terse when they've actually spoken to Leon. Their answers are clipped. They give each other looks when he comes into a room and leave shortly thereafter. Leon tries not to let it bother him, preferring instead to focus on the task at hand, but the constant slights are getting to him. He can't help but feel like a gangly kid again, standing in the school yard, asking if he can join the other kids' game. But that isn't the only thing that's weighing on his mind. It's what Chris told him he saw, one night, when he and Jill were coming out of a drugstore a couple of states away. If what Chris says is accurate, Leon needs to talk to Claire. Now.

The problem is, she's been in her room for most of the evening. It's her normal routine now; eat as little and as quickly as possible, then go back to her room. She's lost so much weight she looks waifish. She and Leon had a thing, for a little while, about picking up one piece of candy a day that they remember from childhood and revisiting it. Her favourites were black liquorice pipes; Leon had a thing for cherry bombs. One night, gorging on sugar, he gave her a nick name. Chocolately Claire. They laughed at how phallic it was, but the name stuck. The late night sugar cravings haven't happened for a while, though, and every time Leon's thought about suggesting it, Claire's disappeared again. He's worried.

And he misses her.

Leon finally takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. Inside, he hears a soft sigh. Then, "What?"

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

He opens the door and steps inside. Claire is curled up on the thin mattress, bundled in as many blankets as she could find. The bare overhead light bulb is on and glaring down on the centre of the room so brightly it looks theatrical. The sight of Claire cocooned in the blankets elicits a chuckle from Leon.

"Comfy?"

Claire shakes her head.

"I'm getting a cold."

Her voice is deep and raspy. She's not kidding.

"Yeah?" he says, suddenly apologetic about his amusement. He hasn't heard her voice in a while. He thinks, if he had, he would have known she was coming down with something. She nods.

"My throat's getting sore. It hurts but I can't stop swallowing."

"I do that too. I hate that."

Claire coughs. It irritates her throat and she makes a face. "Why don't you eat something? They say feed a cold."

"I'm not hungry," she says. She pulls the blankets up further around her neck. Leon takes the opportunity to initiate the conversation he's been having in his head for weeks.

"You don't eat much anymore."

Claire shrugs.

"I've been preoccupied with everything."

"I know. Anything you want to tell me?"

"Just stuff in general. The running."

He nods, but doesn't look away.

"Nothing specific?"

"No," she mumbles.

This isn't the Claire he knows.

He walks over to the bed. Claire scoots out of the way as he sits down.

"You're really skinny, Claire."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah you are. You've lost a lot of weight."

"A little. There's nothing good to eat in there anyway."

"Doesn't matter."

She rolls her eyes.

"I'm tired of macaroni and cheese."

"Now I know you're coming down with something," Leon smiles. "You love that crap."

"So do you."

"Not as much as you do."

Claire swallows and brings her knees up.

"I'm not hungry."

"Claire."

Their eyes meet, and his gaze is steely blue with resolve. Claire's stomach leaps into her sore throat. She lets the blankets fall a little. Her usually pale skin is red and blotchy. Her cheeks are flushing. Leon thinks she's getting a fever. He looks down at his knees. "You wanna talk to me about that phone call?" he asks quietly. Claire looks away.

"Which one?" she murmurs.

Leon grins, even though he's gone melancholic. He meant the phone call she ended abruptly, of course, that night when he asked her to get him a donut. But they haven't spoken about the other phone call. Not yet. The first time they saw each other, after that, their voices were too loud, they joked too much. They goofed around, the way they did in the cherry orchard, a little too urgently, as if they were trying to keep occupied, to not speak about what happened. There's no denying, though, that Leon can still hear her voice in his ear sometimes. He'll wake up to the memory of her gentle coo. He'll bite his lip and jerk off as quietly as he can in the shower, thinking of the things she said, wondering if they were true or not. One thing, however, keeps him from admitting it to anyone, even to himself. One person.

Ada.

Ada still hasn't gotten in touch with him. He asked her to, before they went their separate ways. He practically begged her to call him as often as she could, to let him know she was alright. She came up with the usual excuses for why there would inevitably be delays. It's too risky to keep in contact that often, she said with her fingers woven into his hair. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself. Leon tried everything, but it was no use. Ada works best alone. She's got connections he's never heard of before, and no doubt she can handle herself in a crisis. But when he thinks of all the times she's needed him, and he's failed her, he starts to worry again. He's spoken to Claire about it, and she's made him feel better. Somewhere, though he's still not quite sure where, there's a part of her that knows exactly how he feels when it comes to Ada: helpless, and guilty.

Which is why it tears him up, afterwards, when his head is pressed against the cool tiles of the shower and his ragged breathing returns to normal.

"Any one," he says after a pause.

He looks at her. She's still facing the wall.

"I don't know what to say."

"Are you embarrassed?"

"About what?"

"About what we said."

Claire shakes her head.

"No," she replies softly.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why would I be mad at you?"

He runs a hand through his hair.

"Because I haven't asked you about it."

"That's no big deal."

He reaches out and tucks a part of the blanket beneath her foot.

"I liked it," he confesses.

Claire swallows again. Her nose is starting to get stuffed up.

"Me too."

Leon wants to ask her if she meant the things she said. If she really did want him to take her, really did want him to do all the things she asked him to. He thinks about those things still, when he needs to think of something other than escape, other than subterfuge. Her voice goes through his head now, as he looks at her; she's wearing an oversized baseball t-shirt that she sleeps in from time to time. This woman, his closest friend, is troubled by something, is getting more and more ill with every passing moment, and all he can think of is her naked breasts, her eyes closed, her legs spread apart, for him, her best friend.

He swallows.

"It was unfair of me," he says.

"What do you mean?" she asks hoarsely.

"To start something like that. With you. It wasn't fair."

"Why?"

He sighs. "Because we can't do anything about it," he says.

Claire's gaze drops to the floor.

"Oh. Right."

"It wouldn't be..."

"I know," she cuts him off, lifts her hand up and lets it drop to the sheets that are pooled in her lap. "I know. Don't say anything else."

Leon nods. He looks at her. "Hey," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Are we good?"

His fingers find a stray lock of her hair, brush it delicately behind her ear. She blushes.

"Yeah."

They look at each other. He leans towards her and opens his arms, collects her thin frame in his strong embrace. He holds her close. "I'm contagious," she warns.

"I know. What can I say? You turn my crank."

She giggles, coughs, and holds him back.

"You can talk to me," he tells her. "Any time."

"Okay."

"I'll get you some medicine. Something that'll knock you right out."

"Okay."

"If you need anything, let me know."

"Okay."

"Anything."

She feels his hands run up and down her back.

She feels his cool cheek press against hers.

She feels his lips, gently, very gently, brush her earlobe.

He blows softly in her ear.

She shivers.

"Feel better, Chocolately Claire," he says, almost whispers.

"Thanks," she replies.

And he holds her, too long.

She needs her rest.

 **Thirty-Five**

Rebecca's heart is pounding.

He's carrying her through the flat, over his shoulder, hauling her into the bedroom as if he's just plucked her off the street. She's trembling because she honestly doesn't know what he's going to do next. After watching him destroy everything that fell beneath his grasp, including his gift to her, she can't be sure. She thinks of his promise to her, as he strides through the door to the bedroom, as he turns around and slams it closed behind him, as he takes a few more steps and flings her down onto his bed. She still hears his words, murmured all those weeks ago, as he lies on top of her, and when she tries to get up he puts both his hands on her shoulders, pins her down, and growls, "Don't move." Rebecca stops and looks at him, her eyes glistening, pleading.

He promised her he wouldn't hurt her.

He promised.

"Albert..."

"Shut up."

"Albert please..."

"Shut up."

"I'm so sorry..."

"I don't want to hear it."

"I didn't mean for it to happen, it just..."

"It just what?" he says.

She can tell he's glaring at her from behind his dark glasses. She can't move. He takes hold of the sweater she's wearing, the collar in both his hands, and with a violent yank, tears it open. Rebecca doesn't move. She knows what he's looking at.

He stares at her neck, seething. Her lover left his mark after hours of kissing her, of nibbling her skin the way he used to, all those years ago. He smirks and nods, because it's just the kind of sophomoric activity he thought Billy Coen would indulge in if he ever got his hands on Rebecca again. Rebecca watches, terrified, but rivetted. Part of her wants to escape, to return to the safety and familiarity of her former lover's embrace. But part of her wants to see how far the man in black, the man she loves, will go. She's ashamed to admit it, but it's true.

"You've been busy," he sneers.

"Please Albert..."

He starts to unbutton his shirt.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Let me explain..."

"I don't require an explanation."

He slides out of his shirt and reaches for his belt buckle, unfastens it. Rebecca's wearing a skirt. He doesn't need to remove it.

"Talk to me..." she whispers.

He pulls his belt off quickly, and the leather snaps sharply, like the crack of a whip. Rebecca almost chokes on her gasp.

He leans down, locks her in his sight.

"I'm through with talking to you," he says.

Nothing can reach him now.

He unbuttons his pants.

Rebecca lays perfectly still as he undresses. She won't move, won't fight back, won't beg to be let go. He strips with a severe cadence that lets her know she'll never be the same when he's through. He's never been this angry with her, and it's true she's scared, scared out of her mind. But she can't admit that somewhere, hidden away with so many other things that frighten her, there's a part of her that's comforted by his anger; somewhere, his anger is his desire. Somewhere, his anger is justified. Somewhere, his viciousness is... might be... love.

"You're going to tell me everything he did to you," he says as he grabs hold of her bra.

"Albert..."

"Everything he did to you, I want to know."

He rips the garment apart, baring her to the chill in the room. "Everywhere he kissed you..."

His lips close around each red mark. He kisses her. He bites her. Rebecca starts to struggle, her hands on his chest.

"Albert..."

"Here... and here..."

"Let go of me..."

"No," he says.

She pushes him. He grabs her wrists and pins them over her head. He takes his glasses off. His glare has never been more savage. "This is what you want, isn't it? Isn't this what you want from me?"

"No."

"Yes it is. You want me to be a villain. You want me to be cruel to you."

One hand leaves hers, reaches down, finds her panties, starts to pull them off. "You want me to hurt you to give you an excuse to go back to him."

"No."

"It would be so easy then, wouldn't it? So easy to leave me behind then and go back to your hero."

"You know that's not what I want."

"Isn't it?"

"No!"

He jerks her panties off of her and throws them aside. His glare is unrelenting.

"You're a liar," he says.

Rebecca closes her eyes as he pins one of her thighs back and rolls on top of her, pressing her down on the bed with his hips, his hands. "Did he go down on you?" he demands.

"Yes..." she says.

"Like this? On your back?"

"Yes..."

"You liked that, didn't you?"

"Yes..."

"Did you sit on his face?"

"Yes..."

"Did you suck him off while you sat on his face?"

"Yes..."

"Of course you did."

He lets her hands go, and they remain above her head. She watches him inch lower and lower on her, until his tongue is circling her, swirling around her flesh, hot and wet, aching. She whimpers as every inch of her is licked by him, kissed by him. The moist sound of his mouth between her legs forces her to shut her eyes and give in. He finds the spot she loves most and tickles it, nuzzles it, suckles it until she feels like crying. He doesn't allow her release. Instead he stops and prowls up her body again, rolls onto his back, and gruffly collects her into his embrace. He bends her back until her hips hover above him, until she's facing him, stiff with lust, then pulls her down so that he can finish what he started.

Rebecca moans when she feels him again. She's exhausted. Her head is fuzzy. She doesn't know what time it is. All she knows is that the man beneath her is not the man she was with hours ago. The man beneath her is a villain. The man beneath her is fucking her cruelly, manipulating her, trying his hardest to make her feel as much pain as he does. The man beneath her is a man she loves. But is he the only one?

She doesn't know.

She takes him in her mouth, and he groans, licks her harder.

"Did you come like this?"

"No."

"He couldn't make you come like this?"

"I didn't want him to."

"No... you wanted him to fuck you, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You wanted his cock inside you."

"Yes."

"How did he have you?"

"Don't ask me that."

"Did he fuck you on your back?"

"Please."

"Answer me."

"Please Albert."

"Did he fuck you on your back?"

He finds the spot again, teases her with his tongue. She whimpers.

"Yes."

"Did he take you from behind?"

"Yes."

"On your knees?"

"Yes."

"On your stomach?"

"Yes."

He grabs her hips and forces her away, down on her back, and climbs on top of her. She puts her hands on either side of his face, holds him for a moment before he shakes his head, shooing her away. Her eyes start to water when he takes hold of himself, nudging against her tightened, wet sex. She doesn't know what to do.

"Albert..."

He doesn't answer. "Why does it have to be like this?"

"Because this is what you wanted."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"Please," she begs.

"You want the roles clearly defined," he says, his voice low, on the edge of eruption. "The damsel in distress, the hero, and the villain. Nothing in between. This is my part. I'll play it. For you."

Rebecca shuts her eyes. He brushes the delicate hair at the nape of her neck up with his fingertips. He leans down and bites her there, and when his cock is all the way inside her, she moans and throws her arms around him.

The harder he fucks her the more she gasps, the more she gives in to his demands. He positions her shamelessly, all modesty lost in circumstance, as easily as one would pose a mannequin, as lewdly as one would pose a deceitful lover. He takes her the way Billy took her; on her back, on her stomach, on her hands and knees. He tries not to look at her, tries to be as unmitigable as he can, but he can't help it; her big green eyes, when they're open, bewitch him, and he has to fight the urge to be gentle. "Albert..." she moans when she misses his gaze, however ferocious it may seem to some.

"Rebecca..."

"Look at me..."

"No."

"Please look at me..."

"No."

"Please..."

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to look. He's afraid of the truth he might find there. He's afraid of seeing where her heart lies. "Albert..."

"Shut up."

"Please."

"Shut up."

"Albert..."

"Sie sind meins, Sie kleine hure!" he snarls.

Rebecca's heart stops. She starts to shake. "Sie sind meins!"

She gasps when wraps his arms around her. He hoists her up until she's on top of him, leans in and presses his face against her chest. He can't let her hear the terrible things he wants to say to her, to hurt her. There might be a chance, after this, that she'll forgive him, the way she always does. His arms wrapped around her thighs, he lifts her up and pulls her down, thrusting deep. "Sie wünschen mich Sie verletzen," he grunts as he thrusts up and into her, over and over again. "Sie mögen es, wenn ich zu Ihnen grausam bin... Ich zertrümmere Ihr hübsches Gesicht innen... Ich auseinander Sie reißen..."

"Harder..." she begs. "Harder..."

"Sie baten um es..."

"Harder..."

"Ich will dich vögeln..."

She leans back, and he kisses her neck, runs his strong hands over her breasts, her hips.

"I didn't want to hurt you..." she says.

He finds her hand, takes it, squeezes it in his.

"Eine kleine Kröte..."

"I didn't want to, I swear..."

"Halt dein verdammtes Maul..."

"Please believe me..."

"Fick Dich..."

"Albert..."

"Fick Dich..."

"I love you..."

"Fick Dich!"

Rebecca closes her eyes, feels him stirring within her. His grunts grow more arrant, more feral. He grabs her, pulls her close, and loses control. He releases himself, hot streams of passion, of anger, and she hopes, prays, it won't be the last time.

In a moment, they're quiet. He reaches up and strokes her hair, opens his eyes and looks across the room. His lips are parted to help him catch his breath; he turns his face to hers, brushes against her cheek for one final farewell. Then he eases her off of him and moves away, slides his legs over the side of the bed.

Rebecca watches him, spent, and terrified.

"This is over," he murmurs, staring down at his knees.

"No..."

"I'll have them take you home tomorrow."

"No, please..."

"I'm sorry, dear heart."

"Please Albert... you don't understand..."

He looks at her.

"What don't I understand?"

Rebecca's eyes fill with tears. They spill over, but she's too exhausted to sob.

"He told me he loves me."

His jaw tightens.

"I'm sure he did."

"You've never told me you love me. Not once."

His eyes grow fierce. He leans towards her. She shrinks back against the pillows.

"You told me you loved me," he says. "And then you fucked somebody else. Love doesn't mean anything to you. So why should I say it?"

She looks him in the eye.

"Because I love you."

For a moment, he doesn't say anything.

Then he nods. "Fuck you."

He leaves the room, shuts the door, leans against it, closes his eyes, and listens as Rebecca starts to weep.

Both their hearts, broken.


	8. Chapter 8

**Thirty-Six**

Rebecca is curled up in a seat next to the window, covered in a warm blanket. The cabin is chilly. The sun is shining on the other side of the craft, so she doesn't have to squint. She's gazing out at the clouds rolling beneath the wing of the plane. They're white and look solid enough to walk on. Rebecca knows the plane is one of the fastest in the world, but she can't tell by what's going on outside. To her, it looks as though they're barely moving. She's never really liked flying because of it. To her, it feels like waiting in the air for hours on end.

He didn't tell her where they were going. After opening the crate, all dialogue, however stilted, was cut off. He walked through the halls of his Japanese quarters with determination, barely acknowledging his staff as they rushed by him, eager to deal with their own belongings. He packed a single briefcase, then had his employees take both he and Rebecca to his private airport. For her part, Rebecca brought as many clothes as she could stuff into a duffel bag. Nothing else was hers. Nothing else was familiar.

She looks over at him. He's sitting on the sunny side of the plane and staring out, as she was a moment ago. Most of his face is obscured by the angle, but the sun's rays are highlighting his hair in dark gold. His black suit is as crisp as ever. He's not wearing his gloves; one hand is gripping the arm rest, the other is propped up under his chin. Despite the nature of their flight, he looks calm, and warm.

"Albert?"

He looks at her.

"Yes?"

Rebecca hesitates. She doesn't want to make him mad, but she can't be left in the dark anymore.

"Who's Hollum?"

He looks away.

"Hollum is a rival of mine."

"You know him?"

"I know of him. We've never actually met."

"He's a rival?"

He shakes his head.

"We shouldn't discuss this."

"Yeah we should," she says, insistent. "Yeah we should. I want to know what's going on. I have a right to know after all this, don't I?"

He smirks.

"Yes, you do."

Rebecca sits up as one of the crew members comes in with a cart of tea and toast. He put them on a schedule to make sure she was looked after. Rebecca isn't shy about snacking this time. When the crewmember leaves, she reaches out and snatches a piece of bread. She bites into it, and the crumbs fall onto the blanket.

"When I was rebuilding Umbrella according to my own design," he begins, "I had a dedicated staff of researchers and well connected spies. I surrounded myself with the best, to ensure everything went as planned, and I succeeded in restoring nearly all of the corporation's former glory. But this time I wasn't a pawn. This time I was in control."

He pauses, and the word hangs in the air.

"Umbrella, my Umbrella, was well on its way to domination. Until I discovered that someone was poaching my best officers. Or killing them, depending on where their loyalties lay. I discovered that every company I made contact with was a dummy company, a ruse created to trap me. HCF was one. 'S' was another. They began anticipating my moves, until it was clear I had to destroy what I could and get out. In my attempt to find out just how many people there were behind the sabotage, I discovered that every company, every contact I had made, had been an agent working for one man alone."

"Hollum," Rebecca says.

"Yes."

"How did he keep so many tabs on you?"

"His reach is far longer than mine." He chuckles. "And of course, he had one very willing participant."

Rebecca's face is blank at first. Then she realizes who he's referring to.

"Ada Wong."

He nods.

"Though I can hardly blame her. She was ignorant to Hollum's true intentions for a long time. And I haven't exactly been… kind to her."

Rebecca bites into the toast again, jealous. She doesn't like the idea of him being kind to any other woman. She knows what it takes to bring him to that point.

"Every organization she worked for was affiliated with Hollum," he continues. "She switched often, to make sure I wouldn't find out about any one in particular, and to ensure her ultimate goal was realized with as many avenues as possible. But she had no idea she was working for the same man all along."

"Her ultimate goal?"

"My destruction."

He says it easily. Rebecca looks down at the crumbs.

"Oh."

"In any case, I stopped my research in an attempt to relocate and start again. But most of it was seized in a series of raids on the various complexes I operated out of. Knowing the scientific discoveries Hollum's men managed to confiscate, I knew I had to bide my time. Instead of ducking completely out of sight, I attempted to play Hollum's own men against him."

"That's why you showed up at the warehouse that night?" Rebecca asks.

"Yes. To make sure they didn't get their hands on the most important discoveries." He looks at her, a small smile on his face. "As they say, the rest is history."

Rebecca sits back and looks at him. He doesn't look away.

They miss each other.

"Albert?"

"Yes?"

"The discoveries they made."

"Yes?"

"Do they have anything to do with that crate today?"

Albert sighs and nods.

"We learned something from the Steve Burnside incident," he says. "Memory is a very… powerful thing. Affection for others… can make you… lose sight of your objectives." He runs a hand through his hair. "Certain BOWs can only be created with specific DNA patterns. Hunters, Lickers, Tyrants… they require an exact balance of DNA in order to achieve the desired effect. The creature Steve Burnside mutated into was a valuable one. But his conscience was stronger than the virus. He was a remarkable young man." He smiles at her. "Well worthy of Redfield's sister."

Rebecca smirks.

"What do you know about that?" she scoffs.

"I'm a romantic at heart," he says.

They smile.

It's coming back.

"It was too expensive to continue to take risks on individuals," he continues, his grin fading. "It was taxing on our resources. We wanted to recreate BOWs as quickly and efficiently as possible. So we recreated the exact DNA patterns required. Artificially."

Rebecca stares at him.

"Clones," she says softly.

He nods.

"It was more… economical to do it that way. And less psychologically destructive for the officers."

"That body in the crate," she says. "William Birkin. He was…"

"A clone of my former partner," he finishes. He looks away. "A clone of my former friend."

Rebecca sits up straight. Her knees are getting sore. She needs to stretch, but she's warm beneath the blanket.

"They sent you a clone as a warning?"

He nods again. "What do they mean? They want you to know they're going ahead with cloning people?"

"More than that," he says. "They want me to know what their ultimate plan for me is."

She stares at him.

"I remember you, all those years ago," he says gently, as if he's seeing her for the first time after a long absence. "I remember what you were wearing. I remember your perfume. You were so… innocent… and beautiful… and smart as a whip. Just to look at you… I felt I'd collected some lovely treasure I could marvel at all day long. When you asked me to come with you, I knew everything I'd worked for could be destroyed by your team mates. By Hollum. But I didn't care. I need… to be with you. Though I don't always show it."

She looks down at the tea pot.

"Imagine what would happen had I never met you," he continues. "Imagine if I'd never known you. If I'd never known your… kindness… or affection… Imagine what kind of a monster I could be. Imagine that, a thousand times over."

Her face goes pale.

"Oh god…"

Everything falls into place, all at once. Her mind starts to race. His warning in the warehouse that night was right. Whatever Hollum has planned, it's very big, and very dangerous. Even he didn't anticipate Hollum's ultimate plot. Not until he was standing in that room overlooking the mountains. Not until he was staring at the naked man in the crate. Rebecca pictures it: an entire army of him. Cold. Mechanical. Deprived of everything human and decent, right from the start.

No second chances.

He looks at her.

"Do you understand now?" he asks.

"Yeah," she replies, her voice phlegmy from her recent snack. She clears her throat.

He smiles.

"Don't worry. I may have run out of allies, but I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."

"I want to help," she says. "I want to help get this guy."

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

He chuckles.

"You're lovely when you're excited."

"I'm serious!" she says, exasperated.

He nods.

"Very well then. When we arrive, I'll begin your training."

"Where are we going?"

"Germany," he says.

She grins.

"I've never been. Is it nice?"

"It's beautiful." He looks at her. "Will you come here?"

"Why?"

"I haven't held you in a while."

"Oh." She hesitates. "I'm so warm, though."

"I'll keep you warm," he says.

She giggles.

"Really?"

"As best I can."

Her laughter fades. She slips out from under the blanket and walks over to him, climbs onto his lap. He leans back in the reclining seat and lowers it until she's lying down on him. His arms encircle her. They kiss, so softly it hurts, so gently it feels as though they'll explode.

"Captain," she says.

She hasn't called him that in a while. He smiles.

"Miss Chambers."

She leans down, her face cradled in the crook of his neck.

"I'm scared," she whispers.

"Don't be scared," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "Don't be scared."

He turns his head, so that she can't see his face, and mouths something he can't let her hear. She closes her eyes, faintly smells his cologne. Then she smiles.

"Xeyrus Rouge," she says.

He chuckles.

"You remembered."

 **Thirty-Seven**

"Tell me it's you..."

He nods. "Oh god..."

She buckles over, as if she's been punched in the stomach.

She feels his hand beneath her chin. He gently guides her back to him. She can't bear to look him in the eye. It hurts too much. "Steve..." she croaks.

He smiles.

His hands reach up, find her flushed cheeks, hot with fury and confusion.

"Shhhh..."

"Where've you been?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"Shhhh..."

"Steve..."

She embraces him.

His face is the same.

His body, the same.

His smell, familiar and warm.

Everything about him.

He's back.

Perfectly.

He holds her close, holds her as she sobs, guilt and shame pouring out all at once. She grips him as tightly as she can, and when her mind drifts back to that day, that moment, she presses against him greedily, determined not to let him slip away.

He does pull away, and smiles at her boyishly. It takes her a while to stop crying, but when she does, he's waiting for her, his smile never faltering, his eyes on her face.

"I've missed you so much..."

The grin still there, he looks away. "Where've you been?"

He shakes his head.

"Shhhh..."

"How did you get here? What did they do to you?"

"Shhhh... shhhh..."

"Please tell me..."

Again, he shakes his head.

He leans into her, stops her questions with a kiss.

She dreamed of this. One of the things she regretted most was not being able to kiss him goodbye. Not being able to kiss him at all. She thought for certain he'd get out with her. She thought they'd be rescued, the both of them together, and she'd be able to get to know him better, away from the violence, away from the monsters. And maybe they'd be out somewhere on a warm night, and he'd kiss her then. But it didn't turn out that way.

Now his arms are around her, and his lips are pressed to hers, and she feels him, tastes him, and finally knows what it's like. She feels like fainting.

His hips pin her to the brick wall.

One of his hands grabs her ass and squeezes.

The other slides over her breast and caresses her.

She moans softly.

"I'm so sorry..."

"Shhhh..."

"I'm so sorry I didn't save you..."

"Shhhh..."

His mouth opens wider. She hears him sigh.

"I'm so sorry..."

She remembers his voice.

I can't breathe... Claire... help me...

The tears start again. "I couldn't save you..."

"Shhhh..."

"I let you down..."

Claire's mobile phone starts to ring.

She doesn't answer it. Her answering service picks up.

"I let you down..."

"Shhhh..."

"Where've you been?"

Her phone starts to ring again. She ignores it.

Hey beautiful, he mouths.

"Talk to me, Steve, please..."

She looks at him.

The smile slowly drains from his face.

He shoves her away.

"Steve?"

He smirks, and it's terrible.

"Steve..."

He backs away from her.

"Steve, please..."

He turns to leave.

She lunges at him.

"No! Don't go, please!"

She puts her hand on his shoulder, and he shrugs her off.

"Tell me what they did to you!"

He keeps walking.

"Where were you? How did you escape?"

He doesn't turn around.

Her mobile phone rings again.

She grabs at his shirt.

"Don't leave, please! Talk to me!"

He turns around and punches her in the stomach.

She goes down like a ton of bricks. His blow is so strong it knocks all the wind out of her, and she brings her knees to her chest and starts to gasp for air. He stands over her, leering with a frightening glare that turns her to stone. She implores him with her eyes, because her voice is gone. "Don't..." she manages to squeak. "Don't go..."

He turns again, and walks off into the night. "No... no... come back... come back..." she says, but it's no use. He disappears, and she doesn't know if she'll ever see him again.

He hasn't forgiven her.

She closes her eyes, and understands why.

She failed him.

"... come back... please..."

 **Thirty-Eight**

One thing is for sure.

Ashley's bodyguard is a messy eater.

They're all watching him out of the corners of their eyes. He's sitting at a wobbly table and noisily munching away, stabbing at the food with his fork, tearing the meat with a dull steak knife they found in the drawers. Every so often he burps, and doesn't excuse himself. There's a small, satisfied grin on his face as he chews and swallows. He purrs quietly when he eats, like a cat. He's on his third helping and his second beer. No one wants to interrupt him. They're afraid of him. They know who he is.

This is one of the first times they're seeing him without his riot gear on. He wore his gear all the way back to the shelter, but figured he'd get comfortable since he was going to stay for a while. They want to stare at him but don't know how he'll react if he catches them. He doesn't look any older than they are. What he lacks in age, they're certain, he makes up in skills. In brutality. Now, as he downs the last of his beer and another belch erupts from the pit of his belly, they have to start asking questions.

"Who sent you?" Jill asks.

"Ashley told me one of your associates needed some extra protection," he says, finishing off his mouthful.

"Did she mention who?"

"Not really, I mean, she knows who. I didn't ask. Makes no difference to me."

"Why wasn't the Secret Service called in on this?" Chris asks. "Didn't Ashley ask them to protect Cumberland?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because the Secret Service is in on it," he replies. "You think they can be trusted after all that bullshit in the hotel?"

"You're gonna have to explain that to me," Chris says.

"I figured I would," he says with a smile. He picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth.

Chris is impressed with the shameless way Ashley's bodyguard has made himself comfortable. He's relaxed enough to start picking his teeth, with the pointed end of the knife, in front of everyone. Chris remembers the last guy he met with the same codename. He had the same laid back attitude, same jaunty way of speaking, same frankness. But he couldn't hold a candle to the guy sitting at the table now. This guy - HUNK, for lack of a better name - there's something more to him. Chris puts his finger on it. The guy Chris met at the shipping yard had the faintest glimmer of fear in his eyes, despite his bravado. From his time in the Airforce, Chris can spot it now. It's something everyone possesses; the ability to be afraid.

There's no such glimmer in HUNK's eye.

He's not afraid of anything.

"Look..." he says after freeing a tougher piece of meat from his teeth, "Secret Service guys know about all the shit that's going down. They knew about Umbrella, they knew about HCF, they knew about 'S', all of it. But contrary to what you and me and other decent folk think, the Secret Service's job isn't to catch the bad guys. It's their job to keep the best interests of the President in mind. And long as the President's got other shit to deal with, they can pretty much do whatever they want to pass the time. So this Hollum guy drops them a couple thousand bucks to get them to look the other way, you know they're gonna accept. Hell, a couple of months ago the Secret Service was in on the whole scheme to get Wesker into custody just 'cause this Hollum guy made it worth their while."

"You're telling me the Secret Service has no problems ignoring Hollum's MO?" Chris asks.

"The Secret Service didn't give a shit that someone was gonna blow the President's daughter away for ratting them out to Agent Wong," he says, playing with the dull knife in his hand. "I'm saying they don't care, one way or the other."

"I find that hard to believe."

"It's got nothing to do with right or wrong, man. You think Umbrella could pull off half the shit they've pulled off if the Secret Service was on their case? You think we'd have all this shit if they were making arrests in the middle of the night? 'Course not. That's what I'm saying. You scratch their back, they'll scratch yours."

Jill enjoys HUNK's voice, his accent, his mannerisms. He reminds her of the cowboy movies she used to watch with her dad when she was young. She used to curl up on the couch next to him and watch the spaghetti westerns they played on Sunday afternoons. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, or Hang 'em High. HUNK is wearing a pair of green fatigue pants, combat boots, and a black tank top, and doesn't look a thing like a cowboy. Still, there's an old fashioned way about him, something campy. If he suddenly said "howdy" she wouldn't be the least bit surprised. There's something about Southern charm that makes everyone feel right at home, wherever they are. Jill has to fight to not pick up the accent.

"So you don't work for the Secret Service," Jill says, to make sure she's on the right page.

"Nope."

"Who do you work for?"

"For the highest bidder," he says, Cheshire-like. "Currently I work for the fine young lady in that room right over there." He points to the room they've given Ashley to sleep in. "And I must say I'm very happy to be of service." He winks. Jill chuckles. Chris rolls his eyes and smirks.

Leon glares at him.

Leon doesn't like Ashley's bodyguard. After all the things he's heard, he thinks the guy can't be anything other than trouble. Leon listens to his Southern lilt and watches him warily, and all the while he hopes Ashley knows what she's doing. The girl he knew back in Spain would never have anything to do with a man like the one seated at the table. Leon watches him open his third beer.

"If this Hollum guy offers you a million bucks to take us all out, will you do it?" Chris asks him.

"Well, I'll have to ask her," he says, referring to Ashley, "but I don't think she'd get a kick out of that."

"You're on our side then?" Jill asks.

"You got it. As long as it's what she wants, it's fine by me."

"Where's Cumberland?" Chris asks Jill.

"Resting up."

"So we're gonna be moving on tomorrow, that right?" the bodyguard asks.

"Yeah..." she answers, rubbing her eyes. "One last shelter. Cumberland has to set the machine up. Then..." She sighs. "Who knows what'll happen then."

"Think that thing'll work?"

"It has to work," she says. "Or we're all fucked."

"Especially Rebecca," Chris admits.

Under the table, Jill puts her hand on Chris' knee.

"She cares about Wesker that much, huh?"

Everyone nods slowly. He shakes his head, still smiling. "Shit. Ain't girls just the best?"

"Yup," Chris agrees, looking at Jill.

"Speaking of," he says, looking at his watch. "I should go see what Princess is up to." He pushes away from the table and stands up, turns around to leave without thanking them for the meal.

Leon mutters something under his breath.

HUNK stops in his tracks and turns around, looks Leon square in the eye, with a smile on his face.

"Come again?" he asks, and it sounds like a dare.

Jill holds her breath.

Chris watches intently. Punch him, punch him, punch him, he thinks.

"Nothing," Leon says.

Chris recognizes the glimmer in Leon's eye. It takes everything he has not to laugh.

Still grinning, HUNK narrows his gaze. "Kennedy, right?" he asks. Leon nods. HUNK nods too. "She mentioned you," he says.

They stare at each other.

The door to Ashley's room opens. She comes out, dressed in a long pink nightshirt.

"Finished eating?" she asks him.

He looks at Leon a moment longer, then turns to her.

"Sure have," he says, opening his arms. Ashley smiles and steps into his embrace. HUNK's toned arms close around her. He kisses the top of her head. "You sure look pretty," he says.

"Thanks!" she says. She looks at everyone. "Mind if I steal him away?"

"Go right ahead," Chris answers brightly.

Ashley takes HUNK's hand and leads him to her room. HUNK nods his goodnight and follows her. The door closes behind them.

For a minute, no one speaks.

Leon gets up and heads to Claire's room, without a word of acknowledgement.

Chris starts to chuckle. Then Jill.

"I like that guy," he says to her.

"I thought you would," she replies.

Vindicated, he leans in and starts kissing her neck noisily. She playfully shrugs him off.

 **Thirty-Nine**

Ada is twisting the phone cord up in her fingers. It's a bad habit she's had for a very long time. The minute she gets into a conversation with someone, she wraps and unwraps the wires around her fingers until they're a jumbled mess. She's always hated long telephone conversations. She doesn't like the idea of being in one place for a long time. When cordless phones came out she was one of the first people who bought one. The ability to move around while she was speaking worked for a long time. But it didn't last. No matter what, a telephone call keeps you in one place at one time. No matter who's she's talking to, she can't help but put an end to the conversation.

This time, she's at a payphone.

This time, the person on the other end is Leon.

She didn't want to get in touch with him. No doubt someone's trailing her, keeping tabs on her every move, recording what she does. She's trying to stay out of sight, but she knows it's only a matter of time before her former associates catch up with her. Leon begged her to check in with him, begged her to tell him where she was and if she was alright. She told him she'd get in touch with him when she was able to. She's had a number of opportunities to do so, but didn't take them. She hates the thought of being tied down. When she was younger her mother would tell her to call whenever she arrived somewhere, to let her know she was safe. Ada hardly ever did, even though it was the right thing to do. It's not fair to let someone worry.

But after her conversation with Ashley Graham, Ada doesn't care if it is or isn't.

"Where are you?" he asks.

"At a coffee shop somewhere."

"Somewhere?"

"You don't need to know where."

Leon sighs.

"Alright. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Leon."

"I told you to keep in touch with me."

"Isn't that what I'm doing?"

"It's been almost a month."

"It's been two weeks."

"That's almost a month."

Ada twists the cord around her middle finger. She watches it slowly turn red.

"I'm calling you now," she offers, her voice melodic and coy.

"You know what I mean."

"Don't be mad, Handsome."

She hears him shift in his seat.

"I'm not mad. I'm worried."

"I'm a big girl, Leon. I can take care of myself."

In the background, she hears Claire Redfield's voice.

"One sec," Leon says. He covers the mouthpiece of the phone and says something to her. His palm muffles his voice, so she can't tell what he's saying. Her heart sinks. He finishes his comment to Claire, then returns to the conversation. "Hey."

"I just met with Ashley," Ada says.

"How is she?" he asks.

Ada's tempted to bring up what she found out, but she doesn't.

"She's fine. She's on our side. She's taking care of Cumberland."

"How's she taking care of him?"

"I'm not sure. Apparently she's got someone in her corner who'll help us out."

"Did she say who?"

"No, but they rode off into the sunset together," she replies, barely disguising her trepidation.

Leon chuckles.

"Alright. Do you trust her?"

"Completely. She's very confident."

"Yeah?"

"She spoke very highly of you."

Leon can't tell that she's glaring down at the floor of the telephone booth.

"She's a great girl," he says. "Great girl."

Ada nods. Her finger turns purple. She releases it and waits for the blood to return to normal, then starts all over again.

Ada remembers the first time she saw the rookie cop, all those years ago in Raccoon City. She remembers his eager voice, his mannerisms, the way his hair fell into his eyes. She remembers how protective he was of her, even though he'd only known her for a little while. No one had ever shown her such kindness, such compassion, not even the people she affiliated herself with, who shared the same goals. She compares the young, earnest voice she remembers to the deeper, more confident voice she hears on the phone now. It's funny, but not much has changed. She can still hear his desire to be one of the good guys, to be a hero, somewhere behind his swaggering show of courage. He's making demands on her, asking her to check in, to tell him where she's going and who's she's meeting with.

And she knows why; Leon thinks that she's his.

That night on the pier, it almost looked like they could be together; it almost looked like she was making a promise to him, to be his. And she almost believed it was possible.

But she's lied to him so many times, she doesn't know what's true anymore.

"Ada..." he murmurs.

"Yes?"

"I miss you."

She wants to tell him she misses him too. Instead, she laughs.

"Really?"

"You know I do."

"That's awfully noble of you."

"Why won't you keep in touch more often?"

"It's too dangerous, Handsome, you know that."

"I need to know you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"You know what I mean."

She looks at her watch.

"It's getting late."

"Don't hang up, Ada, please."

She wants to tell him she won't. Instead, she giggles.

"I need my beauty sleep."

"Don't hang up."

She loosens the cord around her finger again.

"Leon."

"When will I see you again?"

"You know I work best alone."

"When?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

She wants to tell him she'll get on a plane and fly right out. She wants to tell him she's missed his arms, his body, his beautiful blue eyes. She wants to tell him there's nothing she wants more than to feel him inside her again.

Then she thinks about Ashley.

She thinks about Hunnigan.

She thinks about where he is now.

And who he's with.

He was good to her.

She threw it back in his face, again and again and again.

She thinks it's too late.

"Soon, Handsome," she says.

There's silence on the other end of the phone. The answer isn't good enough, but it's all he's going to get.

"I love you," he says, his voice soft, vulnerable.

She closes her eyes.

"Soon," she says. "I promise."

She hangs up the phone.

She starts to cry.

Her PCD starts to beep. She thinks it's Leon, calling back. She fishes it out of her purse and looks at the number. It's not Leon.

It's Wesker.

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, then turns the PCD on. Wesker's image flashes onto the screen.

"Long time no see," she says, her voice cold.

"Indeed."

"What's the matter? Couldn't wait to add 'abduction' to your list of felonies?"

"There will be plenty of time to discuss the matter with you later. I have a task for you."

"I don't answer to you anymore," she replies flatly.

"I'll make it worth your trouble," he says.

"Your assets have been seized," Ada says. "What'll you reward me with? Jellybeans?"

"I believe you're aware how dangerous it is to comment on things you know nothing about, Miss Wong," he says.

Ada's mind starts to race. She didn't think another opportunity to keep tabs on Wesker would present itself. But it has, and she can't resist.

It will help to get her mind off Leon.

"I'm listening."

"I want you to gather as much information as you can regarding Lieutenant Billy Coen."

Ada smirks.

"What do you want with Billy Coen?"

"That's none of your concern. I want you to collect everything pertaining to his arrest and conviction. I need every document ever written on the subject. You'll be rewarded considerably, I guarantee it."

Immediately, Ada starts to think of an angle.

"Fine. I'll be in touch."

"Miss Wong," he says.

She looks at him. The PCD makes him look green, like a snake. "I'm aware of your hand in all of this. And I'm very familiar with the game. Fortunately, you're the kind of girl who loves to play and doesn't care what team she's on. So I'm willing to trust you with this simple task. But be advised: if you cross me again, I'll hunt you down and tear you apart. Clear?"

Ada scowls.

"Crystal," she says.

She ends the call.

She told him she'd be in touch.

Wesker.

Not Leon.

 _Why do you do what you do?_

 _Because it's all I know..._

She puts on a fresh coat of lipstick, then walks away into the night.

 **Forty**

"Whooo!"

HUNK's smile can't get any bigger. He's lying on his back in bed, watching Ashley Graham shimmy around naked in front of the hotel's full length mirror. She's doing the twist and shaking her head from side to side so that her hair is a long, blonde blur. Her breasts bounce, her pink nipples dance with every move she makes. Her naval ring, a large white diamond, glints in the track lighting. His enthusiasm eggs her on. She giggles. He starts to sing a standard twelve bar blues riff, and she switches to the pony.

"My, my, you're the prettiest thing I ever seen, Miss Graham," he says when she finally runs out of breath. She combs her hair back down with her fingertips.

"Yeah?"

"Hell yes."

"Thanks."

"Why don't you come shake your sweetness over here, so I can get a better look at you," he says, patting the space next to him. She lowers her eyelids and slinks over, exaggerating her movements like a comic femme fatale. She flops down onto the bed and lays on her stomach, crosses her naked legs at the ankles. "That's what I'm talking about," he says, tracing the small tattoo of a rose on her lower back with his thumb.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey."

She copies him, runs her fingers along his tattoos. He has several; a large black one that stretches from one shoulder to the other, across his back, one on each of his biceps, on each side of his hips. They're designed to look like gashes in his skin, as if someone's taken a knife to him. Ashley smiles. His skin is tanned golden and absolutely perfect; aside from the tattoos there are no marks on him at all.

"What do these mean?" she asks.

"These? They're a badge of honour," he replies, stroking her gently.

"Where'd you get them?"

"All over. I can't rightly remember where exactly."

"Did they hurt?"

"Hell yes. Yours?"

"A little," she admits.

"Girls can take it more than guys, that's what I hear."

"I think it depends on what part you get done. The meaty parts don't hurt as much."

"You got a nice big meaty part right here," he says, squeezing her. She squeals and jerks away because it tickles. "I can't wait to marry you. Gonna watch your butt get all nice and round." He smacks her lightly on the bum.

"No way! Gross!"

"The bigger the cushion the better the pushin'," he jokes. He rolls on top of her, playfully pinning her to the mattress.

Ashley gazes up into HUNK's blue eyes. She loves the way the skin crinkles around them when he smiles. They make him look older, wiser. She's spent a lot of time with him, one on one, after he saved her life that night. She's enjoyed every minute of it. But it occurs to her, as he leans down and starts nibbling her neck, that they haven't spoken much. There are a lot of questions she wants to ask him. For one thing, she doesn't know how old he is, or where he grew up, or why he's in the business of guarding her life. The wonderful thing about him, though, is that she's never afraid when she's with him. She's safe from physical harm, of course. But it's more than that.

Since coming back from Spain, Ashley's had a number of lovers. There was a guy in her English class at University, a guy who worked out at the same gym as a friend of hers who asked about meeting the President's daughter, and the handsome son of a prominent Senator. She dated them for a short while, and thought she could find something more in their arms. But the sex always changed them. They didn't have time for her anymore. They weren't in "good places". They wanted to stay friends, then disappeared. She could feel it coming, knew it was on its way, but loved the feeling of being kissed and caressed so much she didn't want to say no. The morning after was the scariest time of all, because she knew it was only a matter of time before she got "the talk".

Leon, it seemed, set the precedent.

But with HUNK, there's never any doubt.

He's a keeper.

There will be plenty of time to ask him questions.

She closes her eyes and a delicious shiver is sent through her as he nips at her skin. Her hands roam over his tattooed shoulders. When she opens her eyes again, she notices a small one, hidden between the depicted gash marks on his flesh.

It reads, W-15.

"Hey," she says.

"Mmmm?"

"What does this tattoo mean?" She points to it.

He turns his head.

"That's not a tattoo, honey. That's a scar."

They look at each other. He's still smiling, but his face seems sad.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

HUNK lets out a sigh and sits up, then eases her into his embrace.

"It's the name of a serum I was given a long time ago," he begins. "When I was about your age."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Same guys your friends are hunting down," he replies.

"Why's it a scar?" she asks, concerned.

He puts his hand on her head.

"It's a long story," he says. "You got the time?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alright." He moves the pillows behind his back to get more comfortable.

"When I was about your age," he begins. "I got hauled into some facility with a bunch of other guys. We didn't know each other. All we knew is one minute we were out getting drunk, and the next we were in some kind of containment cell. There were doctors everywhere, science types, you know. They dragged us into some kind of operating room. Not really an operating room. More like an asylum room, you know? Straps on the tables for our arms and legs. They tied us down to the tables and shot us up full of this serum. A lot of the guys died, you know, they couldn't take it. Good handful of us lived, though. Must've been there for months. Maybe years. It was hard to concentrate. I couldn't tell what was going on a lot of the time. One day they came in and said it was finished. They told us who we were gonna be from then on. And that was that. We never went back."

He looks down at her. Her brow is furrowed, her hazel eyes large and upset.

"That's awful. How could they do that to you?" She strokes his collar bone with her fingers, nuzzles his chest with her cheek. "Did it hurt?"

"More than anything on earth that hurts," he says.

"What did it feel like?"

He sighs.

"Imagine someone coming into your room, every day, and cutting off a piece of you, and sticking something else on, like a new hand or a new leg, or a new eye. Something you know isn't you, but that becomes you because like it or not you're stuck with it. Imagine someone going into your head and tearing out everything that makes you who you are, slowly, and you not being able to do anything about it." He looks at their reflections in the mirror across the room. "Felt like being torn apart... torn apart and left out in the snow to freeze. We went all numb. We got the shakes. They came in every day, and we struggled... we fought... but we couldn't do nothing about it. They got us." He looks at himself. "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

He looks down at Ashley. There are tears on her cheeks. He picks up a corner of the bed sheet and dabs her eyes dry.

"I can't believe they did that to you."

"I can," he says. "I've seen a lot worse."

"You told me all this, you know... and I don't even know your real name." She looks up at him. "What's your name?"

He shakes his head.

"If I knew, I'd tell you."

Her lip trembles.

"You don't know?"

"No. I'm sure I had one once. But I don't remember what it is."

She burries her face in his neck. He smiles. "Don't cry now."

"How can anyone be that cruel?" she wails.

"Try not to think about it," he says. "You're gonna make yourself crazy."

"I hate them! I hate those motherfuckers!"

"Now, now." He tilts her chin up to look her in her flushed face. "Motherfuckers or not, they made me who I am. And I gotta live with who I am, so I can't start hating on where I come from." He brushes her hair out of her eyes. "We'll get 'em. Don't you worry. In the meantime, you keep fretting, you'll stop eating and I won't have a big ol' butt to squeeze whenever I want."

She tries to push him away.

"You're not getting me fat! Forget it!"

"Damn straight, 'cause I'm gonna give you a workout right now..." He collects her in his arms and lays on top of her, starts to kiss her ears, her cheeks.

He stops when he hears her sobbing.

He smiles, holds her close, and waits for her to finish.

 **Forty-One**

"Don't walk away from me, Claire."

She doesn't listen. She crosses the hotel room, pulls her rucksack out from under one of the double beds, and starts stuffing it with all her loose articles of clothing. Leon marches over to her and grabs her elbow, tries to pull her away. She shakes him off.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"Come on, Claire!"

She shoves everything into the rucksack and zips it closed, then pushes past him, heading for the door. His legs and stride are longer; he catches up to her, stands in front of her. "You're not leaving."

"Get out of my fucking way!"

"No."

She tries to sidestep him. He seizes her arms, holds her fast. "You're not leaving. You're staying right here and you're gonna talk to me."

"I have nothing to say to you!"

"Yes you do."

Her eyes start to water. Her legs are sore from sitting in the car. Once the adrenaline wore off, she cramped up.

Everything fell into place; the things Chris said he saw, the way she's been acting for the past few months. Wesker's brief conference call that morning, letting them all know he was returning their comrade to them, finally clued him in. The minute Wesker said the word "clone" he looked at Claire. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. And everything made sense. It was another one of Hollum's cruel jokes, another instance of him preying on Claire's vulnerability and good nature, to weaken them, to destroy them all. Leon confronted her when the call was over. Claire finally fessed up to why she's been so distracted. And he told her, flat out, what he was going to do.

He was going to hunt them down, each and every one of them, and blow them away.

And Claire told him, if he did, she'd never speak to him again.

She still believes that one of them has to be real.

"Leave me alone!"

He reaches down for the handle of the rucksack and tries to wrench it from her grasp. She won't let go.

"Put it down."

"Let go!"

"Put it down, Claire."

She tugs at it, refusing to give in. His strength wins out; he snatches it from her and tosses it into the middle of the room. She pulls away from him and reaches for it, but he beats her to it and kicks it into a corner. He stands in front of her again. "Talk to me."

She glares at him but doesn't say anything. Undaunted, he glares back. She can't keep it up.

He's hurt her. Badly.

She looks past his shoulder, her jaw tight, her lips pursed and angry.

"Claire."

"Fuck you."

"Claire."

She shakes her head, goes for the rucksack again. He stops her. "Claire."

"I'm never speaking to you again."

"Claire."

"Leave me alone."

"Claire."

"I said leave me alone!" she yells.

Leon's face turns red. She's never raised her voice to him. His defences go up.

"Don't yell at me."

"Fuck you!"

"Don't you fucking yell at me."

"Fuck you!"

"I swear to god, Claire, don't you fucking yell at me."

"You son of a bitch!"

"Claire," he warns.

They glare at each other. They have to be careful. They won't be able to take back anything they say.

Claire can't get the image out of her head. She's never seen Leon look so terrifying. His eyes were bright and brutal, his heart impenetrable. She screamed, but he didn't listen to her. She begged him not to shoot, but he did anyway. And all she can see now, behind her eyes, is the man she's been on the run with, the man she opened up to, her best friend, who blew away her one last chance to make amends.

She's devastated.

"You heard what Wesker said, Claire..."

"You had no right..."

"... you know what that thing was..."

"... to take that away from me..."

"... it wasn't real, Claire. It wasn't Steve..."

"... no right..."

"... it wasn't a real person..."

"You don't know that!"

"I do know that."

She goes for her bag again. He stops her. "You're not leaving. We're sticking together and tomorrow we're picking Rebecca up. That's it."

"You can pick her up yourself."

"Claire."

"I'm not spending another minute with you, Leon. That's it."

"You're not going anywhere."

"I'll go wherever the fuck I want!" she snaps.

Leon clenches his teeth.

He had to do it. He told himself over and over, on the way there, during the search, that he was doing the right thing. Claire deserves better than to be tormented by the ghost of something she had no control over. He heard her impassioned pleas, every word of them; Claire's voice is always there, somewhere in his thoughts. He didn't listen to her because he couldn't stand to watch her get hurt again. He wanted to protect her. He wanted her to be safe. Now she's standing in front of him, trying as hard as she can not to cry, trying as hard as she can to leave, and he can't let her go.

He won't let her go.

"He wasn't real, Claire."

"Fuck you."

"It wasn't him."

"Fuck you!"

His hands clench into fists.

"Hollum created those things, you know that."

"I told you it wasn't your problem! I told you it wasn't your past! It's mine!"

"He's using those clones to get to you, Claire, so you'll slip up and tell him what he wants to know."

"You had no right! No right at all!"

"What, you think that one was real?" he asks, exasperated.

Claire glowers at him.

"He knew things about me..."

"Of course he knew things about you! Hollum's got a file on you a mile long!"

"... that no one else knew... he said things to me that I remember..."

"Which one, Claire? The one tonight? There might be hundreds of them out there!"

"... that no one else would've known..."

"How do you know this one was real?"

"He had to be real!"

"How do you know?"

"Fuck you!"

Again she reaches. Again, he blocks her way.

"He's gone, Claire. He's not coming back."

"How could you do this to me?" she asks, her face red with rage, with anguish. "How could you?"

"I did it to protect you..."

"Fuck you!"

"... because you don't know what you're talking about right now..."

"You son of a bitch!"

"... and you want him to be real so badly, and I'm telling you he's gone, and it wasn't your fault..."

"It was my fault, Leon!" she screams. "It was my fault! I let him down! He did everything for me, everything, he put his life on the line that whole time, for me, and I let him die!"

Leon watches as Claire backs away from him. She puts both her hands over her mouth, squeezes her eyes shut and turns around. Her shoulders heave. She bends over, tries so hard not to cry she chokes on her own voice. She faces him again, finger extended, pointing at him, accusing him. "You weren't there! You didn't see what he did for me! He killed his own father for me! He had to choose between blood and me and he chose me! He protected me, he covered me, he didn't once chicken out, not once!" She stabs the air with her finger. "You should've heard his voice, Leon! You should've heard what he said to me! 'Help me Claire! Help me! I can't breathe!', you didn't hear him beg me to save him!"

"That wasn't Steve, Claire," he says, his voice quiet, tight.

"I fucked it up!" Her throat is sore from screaming. "He needed me once! Just once! And I fucked it up! You didn't see him die, Leon! You didn't see the way he died! It was horrible, horrible, horrible, and it was all my fault!"

"There was nothing you could do, Claire..."

"You don't understand!"

"Sure I do."

"No you don't!"

"Claire..."

"You have your ghost!" she screeches. Leon stares at her. "You have your ghost! Why can't I have mine?"

The moment Leon starts to walk over to her, Claire backs away. She doesn't want to be consoled, even though it would feel so good to be held by him. She wants to be angry. She wants to rant and rave. It's the only thing she feels in control of now; her own fury. He stops. "I know what it's like, Claire."

"No you don't," she growls. "No you don't. You can go back to her. You can hold her whenever you want."

"No I can't."

"You know she loves you. You know she wants you too. In a perfect world the two of you could settle down somewhere and be together."

"It's not a perfect world."

"He smelled like him!" she wails. She puts her hands over her face. "He sounded like him! He felt like him! I was so close!"

"Claire..."

"How could you do this to me?" she demands. "How could you take that away from me?"

"Because it's not real!" he shouts. "He's gone, Claire, and he's not coming back!"

"I fucked everything up!" Her arms, legs, everything, she's shaking. "I fucked everything up! I fucked up the mission! I fucked up all our lives! I ruined everything!"

"Claire," he says, walking towards her.

"Get away from me!"

"Claire, please..."

She backs away.

"Fuck off!"

"He was gonna hurt you, Claire..."

He puts his hands on her shoulders. She shrugs him away.

"I let him down! I let him down!"

"Claire..."

She lashes out at him, slaps him hard across the face.

The second she does it, she regrets it. She reaches out for him, and he swats her hand away, looks up at the ceiling. "Leon..." she croaks, her throat on fire. "Leon..." He backs away from her as she tries to hold him. "Leon... I'm sorry..."

"No..." he says, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry..."

She steps towards him. He doesn't move. She puts her arms around him. He doesn't hold her back. "I'm so sorry..."

"Don't..."

"Leon... please..."

"Don't..."

He feels her breath on his cheek. It eases the sting. He closes his eyes.

"... you're all I've got..."

His hands slide over her hips, lock behind her back. "... you're all I have..."

"Claire..."

"... but we can't..." she says, her lungs hitching to get more air. "... I can't..."

"Claire..."

"... we can't..."

His embrace tightens. She's caught.

"Damn it, Claire..."

They hold each other.

"Leon..." she murmurs.

"Damn it..."

Her lips are close to his ear. Her voice, raspy and desperate.

"... I'm sorry..."

"... Claire..."

"... Leon..."

"... baby..." He starts to whisper in her ear. Her knees get weak. "... baby..."

"... Leon..."

"... God I want you so bad..."

"... Leon..."

He pulls away, looks down at her, his eyes searching her face, making the connection. He recognizes her, recognizes what they're about to do. Claire can hardly breathe. She's afraid one false inhale will shatter everything, make it rain down all around her. They look at each other, their eyes bright, shining, and something in their hearts springs to life. He leans down and kisses her fiercely.

Claire moans. She slings her arms over his shoulders, holds onto him with all the strength she has. Weeks of longing, of desire, of coming alone at the thought of him, pour from her mouth to his. Kissing Leon, really kissing him, is better than she dreamed it could be.

His hands roam over her hips as his kiss builds in passion, their embrace so unyielding they have to steal their own breath. Claire's body melts against his as his hands seek every inch of her skin. Her sex is hot and moistening with every flick of his tongue. She sighs as Leon's hand reaches down and squeezes her ass, as one of his fingers grips teasingly close. Somewhere in his throat a low growl starts to build. He's going to make demands, and Claire wants nothing more than to surrender.

"… God I want you, Claire…"

"Leon…"

"... I wanna fuck you so bad..."

Her stomach skips.

He's here.

He's real.

"... I want you too..."

"... fuck you from behind..."

He reaches for his belt, unbuckles it while he kisses her.

"... yes..."

"... fuck your tits..."

"... yes..."

"... lick your sweet pussy..."

"... yeah..."

He whirls her around, shoves her down onto his bed, nearly knocks the wind out of her. She reaches out, her fingers tangling with his as he pulls off his belt and unbuttons his jeans. He straddles her and grabs her shirt, yanks it over her head, unzips her jeans, then leans back so he can pull them off. In her bra and panties, she sits up and grabs the belt loops in his jeans, forces them back and down his long, muscular legs. He stands and shakes them off, then pulls off his shorts. Beautiful, hard, lean, he smiles at her; wicked, aroused, and as large as he said he was. He reaches for her panties, white satin and silk, slides them off, then straddles her again. He gathers the delicate garment in his grip, wraps it around his stiffened sex, and starts to stroke himself.

"... shit..." Claire whispers, watching him. "... holy shit..."

"... like that?"

"... yeah..."

"... like how that looks?"

"... yeah..."

He tilts his head back and grunts, demonstrating his lust.

"... you make me hard, baby..."

"... fuck..."

"... make me so hard..."

Claire sighs, enthralled. "... wanna come all over you..." he says.

"You're so hot..."

"Claire..."

He stops, urges her legs apart with his knee, lies between them. He reaches behind her back, unhooks her bra, slides it down her arms and tosses it onto the floor. They're just as lovely as he thought they would be. He leans down and nibbles one of her nipples, flicks the other one with his fingers, pinches her lightly, rolls a perfect breast in the palm of his rough, capable hand. "I wanna fuck you, Claire..."

"Yeah..."

"... can't stop thinking about you..."

"... Leon..."

"... about what I wanna do to you..."

"... what're you gonna do..?"

"... I'm gonna make you come..."

"Yeah?"

"... over and over..."

"Yeah..."

"... I'm gonna make you come 'til it hurts..."

"Yeah..."

"... 'til you beg me to stop..."

"Yes..."

"... I'm gonna shoot my load inside you..."

"Yeah..."

"... all over you..."

"Yes..."

He kisses her, forces her mouth open with his tongue. She moans, and her voice makes him harder, makes him kiss her deeper. He's wanted this for so long, but couldn't do anything about it. Now, after months of wondering, months of closing his eyes and thinking about her, they're here, in a hotel room, here in each other's arms. "Don't ever hit me again," he growls.

"No..."

"You understand me?"

"Yes..."

"Don't ever fucking hit me again."

"I won't..."

He licks his fingers, his hand traces down her front.

"… I wanna feel how wet you get…"

"… yes…"

"You want that?"

She nods. "Yeah?"

"Yes…"

Claire holds her breath in anticipation. He strokes her, softly, with calloused fingertips. He grins, looks down at his hand when he feels her dewy skin.

"Mmmm… feel that…" Claire giggles. "… that's hot… are you wet for me baby?" he asks.

"Yeah…"

"Mm-hmm?"

She nods.

"You make me wet…"

"Yeah?"

"… your voice…"

"You like it when I talk to you?"

"Yeah…"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Leon…"

He smiles.

"… that make you wet?"

"… yes…"

"Good… good… beautiful girl…"

She sighs. His hand finds one spot that sends her back into a gorgeous arch, and he fondles it with his moistened fingers. "Do you think of me when you fuck yourself?"

"Yes…" she says.

"Yeah?"

"… only you…"

"You think of me fucking you?"

"Yes…"

"Mmmm… good girl…"

He kisses her gently, his lips caress hers, his tongue licks her softly, in time with his fingers. They dip down and up, again and again, and she gets wet, deliciously wet, her need for him clearly demonstrated. He uses his dampened hand, wet with her, to lubricate his swollen cock. "… I'm gonna fuck your breasts…"

He inches up her body, and she growls enthusiastically. "Tiger…"

He chuckles; it's been a while since a woman has called him that.

"You like that, huh?"

"Yes…"

He straddles her chest, his knees on either side of her. He puts on a show, starts to rub himself above her. His body is gloriously hard, beautifully defined in the lamplight. Shadows are cast perfectly on his chest, his abdomen, his jaw. His face, though, and his eyes; they're stunning. Claire watches him lower himself onto her, watches him collect her breasts gently in his hands, watches them take on his stiffened manhood. Slowly, his hips rock back and forth, his sex twitches at her bosom embracing his cock. He licks his lips and grunts quietly, soothing her into submission. "Fuck…"

"You like that, tiger?"

"Fuck yeah…"

She reaches up, holds his hips, guides him. She bites her lip and it turns him on. He hasn't been able to get this image out of his head, not since he suggested it on the phone to her that night, not since he first heard her calling his name. He's wanted to pin her down with his legs, keep her still, keep her steady, keep her beneath him while he released a hot river of lust between her breasts.

His head falls back; he opens his mouth, lets out a passionate roar.

"… Fuck I love your tits…"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck yes…"

He starts to move faster, his sex aching for satisfaction.

"Gonna come on my breasts, tiger?"

He shakes his head.

"No…"

"No?"

He grunts, shakes his head again, takes a few more strokes before he stops suddenly, eases off of her, lays on his back and reaches for her.

"Come here," he says.

She rolls on top of him. He lowers himself on the mattress, pulls her hips up towards him. She realizes what he wants and shuffles towards his mouth on her knees. "… let me lick you…"

"Fuck, Leon…"

"… let me lick your pussy…"

She lowers herself down, and his mouth opens, his lips part over her wet skin. Claire gasps as his tongue starts to dart greedily, his slow caresses replaced with a brazen desire to indulge, to please. He nods as she makes little circles with her hips, grunts when she can't help but bounce up and down on his strong, wet tongue. She's thinking of him in blue, in uniform, thinking of how innocent he used to be, thinking of the man he became, the man he is now. Her fingers rake through his hair, hold his head closer to her sex. She looks down and sees his piercing blue eyes open, adoring her. He closes them again and moans, and his deep voice tickles her clit. He tilts his chin up to taste as much of her as he can, and Claire starts to whimper, starts to rut.

"… Leon…"

He can't answer. He opens his eyes, sees her flat belly, her naked breasts, her pert nipples, her long neck, her face alive with delight. He grunts again. He's listening. "I'm gonna come…" He nods, urging her to let go. "I'm gonna come, Leon…"

He responds by slowing down, by finding the spot he found before, by massaging it leisurely. The change of intensity, of pressure, sends Claire over the edge. She seizes up, then bursts with lust, with ardour. She gasps, her legs shaking, her flesh on fire. He watches her come, every fantasy of her writhing fulfilled, and knows she's no longer able to resist.

He shifts his position on the bed, sits up and holds her against his chest, listens as her moaning subsides. Her head falls on his shoulder, her face is damp with sweat. He puts his hand on her head, strokes her hair. His fingers settle on the tie that's always in her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail; they curl around it and he starts to pull. "Take this fucking thing out…"

"… Leon…"

"… I wanna see your hair down…"

She reaches up and eases the tie off. Her long auburn hair flows over her shoulders. He grabs handfuls of it, squeezes it, pulls her closer. She feels him, hard, against her rump. His face in her neck, he inhales her scent, grips her as tightly as he can. The moment her orgasm is complete, he pushes her back down on the bed, his hands free her hair and find her thighs.

"Spread…" he orders.

She does. He starts to rub himself again. He wants to be his fullest, his hardest, when he finally takes her. "… good girl…"

"Please…"

"Mmmm?"

"Please, Leon…"

He smiles.

"You want it?"

"Yes…"

"… you want my cock?"

"… yes…"

"… want me to fuck you?"

"Please… please, Leon…"

He leans down, his body against hers, nudges her with his thick sex.

"Claire…"

"Leon…"

"… baby…"

"Leon…"

"I've wanted this…"

"… yes…"

"… for so long…"

"Me too…"

"… you make me…"

"Leon…"

"… a better man…"

They look at each other.

It's here.

It's real.

"Make love to me," she whispers.

He nods, and thrusts.

Claire gasps.

He fills every inch of her.

She moans.

He feels her, tight around his cock.

Her breath comes faster.

He plunges inside her, voracious, insatiable.

Her legs wrap around him.

He pins them against his sides.

"Fuck me…"

"Yes…"

"Fuck me Leon…"

"Yeah…"

She grunts.

He chuckles.

She moans.

He laughs. "You like that, don't you, baby?" he goads.

"Yes!"

"I knew you would…"

Claire Redfield, writhing beneath him, eyes closed, mouth open. Claire Redfield's breasts, bounding every time he pounds her naked flesh. Her voice is music, her body, incredible.

"Claire…"

"Leon…"

"… sweetheart…"

"… yes…"

"I love you…"

She feels like she's going to cry.

"… god…"

"You know I love you, don't you..?"

"… yes…"

"… don't you..?"

"… yes…"

"Mm-hmmm?"

She grabs onto him as he clenches his eyes shut. He doesn't need to let her know he's close.

"Leon…"

"… yeah…"

"I love you too…"

"… do you..?"

"Yes…"

"I do…"

Their voices soften, to the point where they're cooing, they're whispering.

"… come inside me…"

"… sweetheart…"

"… come inside me, big guy…"

"… yeah…"

"I wanna feel you come…"

"… yeah…"

"I wanna feel you come…"

"... yes…"

His breath hitches. He opens his mouth. His chest rises and falls. His muscles tense.

She's all he can see.

She's all he can hear.

She's all that he wants.

He groans, and climaxes.

Claire Redfield is lying in Leon's arms. She doesn't know what time it is. They fell asleep, soon after Leon came. She raises her head and brushes her hair out of her eyes, then looks at the clock. It's late. She gazes down at the man lying naked next to her. Leon, asleep, is the most beautiful thing she's ever known. She tries to slip out from under the sheets without disturbing him, tries to go back to her own bed to let him rest. When she's almost out of reach, he slips his arm around her waist and gently urges her back.

"Don't go…" he whispers.

She sighs, and settles back in his solid, loving embrace.


	9. Chapter 9

**Forty-One**

The ice cubes in Rebecca's glass are slowly melting. The red and blue lights overhead are reflected on the slick surface of the table. The music is loud; it's some German industrial band. Rebecca's finding it difficult to discern the tune of the song they're in the middle of. The lead singer is a younger girl. Her hair is blonde, short, and spiked. Her nose and lip are pierced. She's wearing ripped tights underneath a pair of satin knickerbockers, a bright red sweater, and black, shit-kicker boots. She's screaming more than she's singing. Rebecca has no idea what the song is about, but she's pretty sure it isn't a love song.

"Do you actually like this kind of music?" she asks him.

The corner of his mouth turns up.

"When I'm in the proper mood, yes."

"Do you understand what she's saying?"

"Not in the slightest."

Rebecca chuckles and downs what's left in her glass.

"I don't think I can take much more of this."

"I think they're finishing their set," he says.

"What?"

She can't hear him over the dramatic climax of the music.

"I said I think they're finishing their set."

Sure enough, the song clatters and crashes to an end. The lead singer yells something out to everyone watching. Some people in the audience cheer. The band walks off stage. Rebecca looks at him. There's something about his countenance that seems somehow foreign. He turns his head and smiles at her.

"Next time I get to pick the place," she says.

"As you wish."

Rebecca looks down at her watch. It's very late. She's not sure if it's legal for the place to be open at this hour, but she's not familiar with the club scene in Berlin so she doesn't ask. She's still pumped from her mission of that night. She needs to wind down and asked to be taken for a drink. Rebecca's not a big drinker, but occasionally she craves the feeling of something strong burning her throat, warming her up. It's cold out, but the club is warmed by the lighting, the people, the noise. It's also the first time she's been out with him in a while. She asked him if they could go for a nightcap and didn't expect him to say yes. But he did. He's not drinking anything, though. Of course not. He's sitting next to her, calm, and waiting patiently for her to finish.

"Where did you go earlier?" she asks.

"When?"

"I was waiting in the car for a while. You were gone for a good fifteen minutes."

"I had a matter to attend to," he says.

"What kind of matter?"

"I wanted to make sure no one was following you."

"I don't think anyone saw me," she says. She starts to retrace her steps in her head, to come up with instances where she might be discovered. She couldn't think of any. She got into the storage facility easily enough. She left just as swiftly, with the box in tow.

She thinks about that box now. She wants to ask him about it.

"Albert?"

"Yes?"

She holds her hand out. He cocks an eyebrow at her.

"Can I see it again?"

He takes it out of his jacket pocket and hands it to her. She looks at him, tries to discern what he might be feeling at this moment. His face reveals nothing. She takes it from him, holds it between both her hands, and looks at it. This is what he asked her to retrieve for him on her first mission for him.

A photograph.

She knew it wasn't a real mission, of course. It's just practice. Hollum isn't an easy man to defeat. Taking him out will require much more than a night time raid of an old public storage unit. He gave her the mission as a test, to see if she'd be able to handle herself in a more strenuous situation. In a situation where her enemy will be armed to the teeth and ready for blood. But when she realized what she'd gone in to retrieve, she knew it was significantly more important than he'd originally let on. She thinks so, at least. When he got back to the car he congratulated her on her accomplishment, then took the photograph from her and put it in the inside pocket of his long, black leather trench coat. He didn't mention anything about it. She wants to know why.

"How old are you in this picture?" she asks.

"About three or four."

"This is the only baby picture you have?"

"It's the only one in existence, as far as I'm aware."

"You kept it locked up?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I didn't want anyone to get their hands on it." He looks at her, his smile wry. "I've a reputation to maintain."

She smirks.

"You were a cute kid," she says.

"Was I?"

"Yeah. Cuter than me. I looked like a little monkey when I was born."

"Not so now," he says.

He puts his hand on her thigh, caresses her skin. She puts her hand on his, squeezes it a little.

"I'm really surprised you'd show me this," she confesses.

"Why's that?"

"You don't talk about your childhood much."

"I suppose I don't."

"Why not?"

"There's not much to tell."

She looks down into her glass.

"I don't know. I get the impression there is."

"The stories blend together," he says. "It all sounds the same after a while."

"You were abused."

"Yes."

"For, like, almost all your childhood."

He nods. "It changed you," she says.

"Not so much." He looks up as a waiter comes by and asks if they'd like anything else to drink. It's one of the only things he understands in German. He orders another for Rebecca. Nothing for himself.

"You don't think it influenced who you are today?" she asks. She promises herself she won't think about her past with him. She wants to think of him as someone new, someone she hasn't known for very long. It makes things easier.

He shrugs.

"Of course it did. I won't deny it. But eventually choices were made. And I made them myself."

"Maybe you would've made different choices," she says. She looks down at the photograph. "You look like an angel in this picture."

He chuckles.

"Still so hopeful."

"What do you mean?"

He straightens his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose.

"Are you familiar with The Merchant of Venice?"

"The play?"

"Yes."

"We had to read it in school."

He grins.

"It's a favourite of mine. Very raw. It's one of Shakespeare's finest works. Often misunderstood. But its genius has transcended time." He leans back in his chair. The band starts to reassemble onstage. Some of the musicians pick up their instruments and start to tune them. It's not so loud that he can't continue. "There's a line in that play that always stuck with me," he says. "I've never forgotten it. I understand it. Completely." He watches as the wiry lead singer returns and starts barking orders at her crew. "The villainy you teach me, I will execute. And it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction." He nods. "I understand that, most of all."

Rebecca looks at him. She doesn't notice the waiter when he puts her drink on the table.

"What do you mean?"

"Only that abuse plants a seed," he says. "But revenge will make it grow. I chose revenge." He looks at her. "I am what I aspired to be."

She watches as the band take up their instruments again. She wants to leave now, but notices her full drink next to her. She figures she'll have one more, even if it means another aural assault. She reaches for it and takes a swig, and it burns on its way down. Her body warms, her cheeks flush. She can't reason with him. Not tonight. The situation isn't conducive for a fight, or heart-to-heart.

Not that she can ever have his heart.

"What's our next move?" she asks, changing the subject.

"I have to monitor what Hollum's men will go after next," he says. "The penthouse was destroyed. Fortunately most of the files there were useless anyway. Nothing he didn't already know."

"What are they after?"

"Any significant discoveries I've made that they haven't come across yet. Data, reports, samples, that kind of thing."

"Wouldn't he have stuff like that of his own?"

"Hollum is many things," he says. "But I know for a fact he's not a scientist."

"You've hidden all this data, these reports and samples and stuff?"

"Yes."

She wants to ask him where, but she doesn't. It's not likely that he'd tell her.

"Has he gotten hold of them?"

"Yes. Which is why I've got to up the ante."

"All of them?"

"Not all of them. The most important information is still safely out of reach."

Rebecca takes another swig.

"What information's that?" she asks, thinking he won't say.

"You're looking at it," he replies.

The girl onstage launches into another furious song.

Confused, Rebecca looks at him. "We should go," he says. "Finish your drink."

"What do you mean, I'm looking at it?"

He nods towards the stage. The lead singer starts to jump up and down, ranting and raving, her skinny legs shuddering with adrenaline. Rebecca looks at her. Her face goes pale under the red and blue lights.

"Oh my god..." For the first time, she recognizes the look on his face.

Pride.

"She looks like her mother," he says.

Rebecca glances at the photograph.

Not by a longshot.

 **Forty-Two**

Nothing can distract Jill when she's driving. Chris knows this. He's tried to get her attention in a car on many an occasion. He'll start telling the most obnoxious tale, stories that don't make any sense. He'll even switch between English and some mock language that he'll make up on the fly. Jill will respond with a low, "Mm-hmm." Chris will point out that she's not listening, and he'll get the same acknowledgement. Nothing phases her. Tonight, not even the bullets whizzing past the car can send her off course.

"You should've been an Indy racer, you know that?" Chris asks as he holds onto the arm rest in the passenger seat.

"Mm-hmm."

He looks over his shoulder. Four black cars are in hot pursuit. Jill is trying to shake them. Whenever she encounters another driver, one that isn't trying to shoot out her tires, she dodges them with ease. They don't know what's going on, don't know that the cars behind her are trying to run her off the road. They honk angrily at her. Some of them start shouting slurs about women drivers out their windows. One guy screams at her, calling her a bitch. Chris rolls down his window and shouts, "Fuck you, motherfucker!" at him. He turns back to Jill. "Stupid assholes!"

"Mm-hmm."

Her tires squeal as she makes a last second turn. Chris holds on again, then chuckles.

Lately, Chris hasn't been able to keep a straight face when he's sent on a mission. He's been out of commission for so long, resigned to lurking in the background and waiting for others to make their moves, that every little task sends a rush of adrenaline right through him. It's the same thrill he used to get when he first joined the Air Force, the same thrill he got when taking on the worst of the worst in S.T.A.R.S. He hasn't felt it since he got back from Antarctica with Claire. Chris hates feeling useless; he always has to be in the middle of things. It's funny, now that they're on the road and heading anywhere that might lose their attackers. Jill offered to give up the wheel, but he said no. He'd get too excited and they'd run the risk of crashing. And Jill's a better driver anyway.

"Jeez, these guys don't quit!" he shouts.

"Mm-hmm."

The other drivers switch their highbeams on, trying to blind Jill. It's not working. She makes another sharp turn, and they struggle to keep her in their sights. Chris looks at her in admiration.

"You're fucking hot when you drive, you know that?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You need a better car though. This piece of shit's gonna die in a year."

He looks over his shoulder. Another peal of gunshots rings out. One of the bullets hits the rear window, shattering it into a million pieces.

"Keep your head down!" he yells. They duck.

"You wanna play hardball, huh?" Jill mutters, referring to their pursuers. "Play with this."

She slams on her brakes. The cars are too slow to react; they dodge and pass her just enough that she's able to swing the car around and take off in the direction they came in. The fact that their assailants have to turn their vehicles around at the same time gives them a head start. Jill steers onto the main road, then keeps her eyes open for a side street to disappear in.

Chris starts to load the second of two .44 magnums. He's waiting for the perfect opportunity to lean out the window and start firing back. Jill swerves along the road and finally turns onto a stretch of asphalt that leads out to the boonies. As the lights of the city fade away, the starts become brighter and brighter. Chris pauses for a moment to look up at the night sky. He can see clouds in the distance. It's going to rain.

"I had this car when I was seventeen," Chris starts. "It looked awesome, but man was it a total lemon. I put more money into that car than I'd paid for it because I didn't want my mom to give me a lecture. And I used to bribe Claire with Dairy Queen so she'd help me wash it on Saturdays. It was sweet when it was running. When I had a hot date I'd take it to drive-in movies, when they still had those, even though the drive-ins were going out of style by the time I got my license. The drive in's a great place to make out."

"Mm-hmm."

He looks over at Jill and smiles.

"Slow down a bit," he says.

She does, but not much. He rolls down the window and climbs through it until he can sit on the car door. He takes aim and, one by one, starts picking off the cars. Two out of the four swerve off the road and fall behind. The others stick close, but they keep missing him. "These fuckers are lousy shots!" he calls.

He empties the magnums. A bullet whizzes by his ear. He ducks back into the car to reload.

"Don't you wanna hear about my hot dates at the drive-in?"

"Mm-hmm."

Chris chuckles and starts to reload again. He's about to make up a story to tell Jill when he hears another motor roaring behind them. He turns his head, trying to see if one of the cars he thought was taken care of managed to pick up the pursuit again.

"Do you hear that?" he asks.

"Mm-hmm."

"It sounds like a motorbike. Where the hell's it coming from?"

He cranes his neck and looks through the shattered rear window. The darkness behind the cars is ripped apart by a crackle of orange light. Someone else is shooting a rapid-fire weapon behind the black cars. Chris can't see who it is. "Thank Christ someone's on our side. Who the hell is that? He's driving without his lights on, crazy motherfucker!"

Another peal of rapid-fire bullets tears through the night. The cars trailing Jill's spin out of control. A sickening crash disturbs the steady revving of the engines along the twilight road. Whoever's on their side, they took care of their pursuers with ease. Jill slams on the brakes and waits. The vehicle isn't just an average dirt bike. It's a well-tuned and expensive Harley Davidson. Not even the dirt from the chase can hide the luxury. They slow and come to stop a little way ahead of Jill's car. There are two riders on the bike; one driver, and one sharpshooter. The sniper's carrying a TMP. They're both dressed in riot gear.

"Wait here," Chris says to Jill.

Now that she's not driving, she pipes up.

"Fuck you, I'm not staying in the car."

"Fine, but I'm going first."

"Suit yourself."

They get out of the car and approach the two riders.

"Hey!" Chris calls. "You guys Secret Service?"

The driver pulls off the gas mask. Chris stops. It's a woman.

"Did Leon send you guys?" she asks.

Chris nods.

"Who are you?"

The driver gets off the bike and saunters over to them, holding her mask in her hand. When she's in Jill's headlights, they can finally recognize her.

"Ashley Graham?" Jill asks.

"You must be Jill," she says with a small smile. "Nice road work there."

"Thanks."

"What are you doing here?" Chris asks.

"Our job," she replies, indicating the other rider on the bike. Chris looks over at him.

"Hey there."

The sniper raises his hand in greeting. Chris waves. "You gonna take your mask off too, buddy?" he asks.

The sniper shakes his head and says nothing. Neither Chris or Jill want to push him. They've seen how accurate he is with a scopeless gun at high speeds. Ashley blushes.

"Maybe later. We're coming with you guys."

"Where?" Jill asks, suspicious.

"Wherever you guys are right now. You're gonna need escorts."

"You're gonna escort us?" Chris asks, incredulous.

Ashley looks at him.

"Yeah," she says simply.

Jill chuckles.

"Okay," she says. "Follow me."

She turns around and heads back to the car. Ashley returns to the bike and swings her leg over it, replaces the mask, and revs the engine. Chris follows Jill, then gets back into the passenger side. He closes the door and starts to laugh.

"Fucking women drivers, huh? They're the best." He looks in the back seat. "You alright there, Cumberland?"

Cumberland looks up from where he's lying on the back seat of the car. His thinning hair has gone more than a few shades of white. He raises a shaky thumb at Chris.

"Fucking great, thanks," he says. Chris smiles.

"Anything broken?"

Cumberland looks at the large bullet proof box he was given to transport the device. It's still intact.

"I don't think so..."

"Alright. Let's move out, Valentine!" he says joyously.

"Mm-hmm," she replies as she pulls back onto the road.

 **Forty-Three**

He's sitting at a small table in the corner.

Out of sight, out of mind.

He blends in with the background. The walls and floors are painted black. It makes the long, chrome counter top of the bar stand out. Most of the patrons of the bar are talking heads. Almost all of them are wearing various shades of black, so that their pale faces look like they're floating above their skinny bodies. Their avant-garde hairstyles were probably cut with razor blades; bangs and layers come off their heads in all sorts of perfect angles. They're talking, drinking, laughing. He can't understand a word they're saying.

Every half an hour he orders another drink. He doesn't drink, of course. Instead he tips the booze over the side of the table, little by little, so that the floor in the corner of the room gets sticky with alcohol. He tried ordering a double of Southern Comfort, his choice way back when, but he couldn't figure out how to say it. The waitress, a curvy thing with short red hair, decided to pick something out for him. Whatever it is, it's bright blue and smells like air plane fuel. Other people are holding the same drink in their hands and sipping slowly, as if they're nursing a broken heart with each touch of their thin lips on the edge of the glass. He tipped her generously, and her hips wiggled as she walked away.

He thought of Rebecca.

Rebecca is back at the flat. Things have been strained between them. He's used to it now. It reminds him of all the hours she spent in the penthouse, staring out the window, or at the floor, or at the walls. Or at him. Sometimes he can forget about all that's passed between them, choosing to concentrate on the task at hand. He treats it as if he was still in control of things, of Umbrella, even from half way across the world. He remembers what it's like to be in the company of someone who at any moment will have to go back to where she belongs. The problem, however, is that so much has passed between them. When she's not around, he's able to ignore it. Rebecca, though, can't ignore it. And she can't forget.

The one thing he never thought he'd have to deal with, he's in the thick of.

Girl problems.

He tips the rest of his drink into the corner.

It's funny, when he thinks about it. Forty-nine, and this is the first time he's actually had what, at the very least, resembles a relationship. He smiles cynically and puts the empty glass down on the table. There was a time when he vowed never to let anyone come between him and his goals; especially a woman. There was a time when he shunned anything that remotely resembled affection; even something as trivial as shaking the hand of a colleague. Things are always so much easier when he doesn't have to consider anyone else. He's used to being able to do whatever pleases him, whether it be for business or pleasure. Lately he's gone back to doing just that - making his own rules, not answering to anyone. The silent treatment suits him just fine, most of the time. If anything, it makes him more comfortable. It reminds him that he's still in charge.

The waitress brings him another without him having to ask. She winks as she walks away, and he can't help but roll his eyes when her back is turned. He'll never fully understand why some women find him attractive. He's barely said anything to her, and yet she's quite willing to walk out of the club on his arm. It's always the younger ones who seem to harbour that kind of lust. He thinks it may have something to do with what he wears out. Black seems to suggest a certain superiority, no matter what dolt happens to be wearing it. Looking around the room, there's plenty of Euro-trash sporting obsidian suits for her to take her pick. Or maybe she really wants him to buy her a drink when her shift ends. They aren't cheap, and he's on his fifth.

He knows what's going on; the changes that take place in his body whenever Rebecca's around. He's not stupid. There are times when he's able to remain strictly scientific about the whole thing. He knows there's something about Rebecca, physically, that he needs. The chemical reaction of his body to hers is beyond intense. It's a rush of sensations that he didn't feel for a decade, until she became his prisoner, and then his lover. He remembers the first time he fucked her, and the drunken feeling that came over him, the intoxication of her young, supple body stroking every inch of his own. She walks by him, steps within ten feet of him, and his heart starts to beat, his mouth starts to water. He can taste her in the air. He craves her, whenever he's close enough to smell her. She consumes him.

So what does that mean?

It means that, if he subjects himself to the cure, he can't be sure whether he'll feel the same way about her once it's over.

His secret. What keeps him beyond her reach.

The music is so loud the speakers are buzzing and shaking with every energetic pulse. He closes his eyes for a moment and listens to the pounding bass line. No matter how loud the music in any given club is, his hearing remains intact. He's just about to call it a night when he hears someone shouting in recognition. At first he ignores it, figuring the salutations are happening somewhere in the sea of patrons. It isn't until he opens his eyes that he realizes two men are standing in front of his table, and one of them is staring right at him. "Albert?" he asks.

He freezes, unsure of whether or not he should acknowledge. He doesn't recognize any of them. They're in their late forties, but they look older, almost weathered. "Albert Wesker?" the man asks again. His pronunciation is proof he doesn't speak any English.

"Yes?"

The man starts to nod, starts to speak earnestly in German. Albert can't follow what he's saying. "My apologies... I don't..."

"He says he knows you," the other man says. "You can't hear him?"

"I don't speak German."

The friend translates Albert's words. The man nods, and starts to relay his message to his friend instead, hoping the right words will reach Albert's ears.

"He says he knows you from when you were kids," the friend says with a smile. "Even with your glasses, eh? He's got a nice eye, eh?"

Albert shakes his head.

"He's mistaken me for someone else," he says.

"He knows your name."

"Albert!" the man says again. "Albert Wesker!"

Albert lets out an irritated sigh, but they can't hear it above the music.

"What's his name? What's your name?" he asks. The friend translates the question.

"Christoph!" he replies. "Christoph Ruecker!"

Albert's jaw tightens.

It's the first thing Christoph has said to him since that afternoon, all those years ago, in the yard.

The man starts to babble, starts to go on and on. The friend tries to keep up with his translations. "He says he knew it was you because of where you're sitting here in the corner... He wants to know what you do now."

Albert pauses; there are many professions to pick from.

"I'm a scientist," he says finally.

His answer is given to Christoph.

"He says he knew you'd do well for yourself, because you were always so smart."

Albert nods, but doesn't answer. Christoph continues. "He says you're looking very good."

"Tell him thank you," Albert replies, not knowing what else to say.

"You were taken to America?"

"Yes."

"So you don't speak German anymore?"

"No..." He looks up at Christoph, who can't stop staring at him. "I've forgotten..."

Christoph's eyes become keen, start to glaze over, but his smile is still huge. He leans over to his friend and speaks again.

"He says he's glad you had the chance to leave and grow up in the States," he explains. "He says he's always wanted to visit."

"Yes..."

"It was a good opportunity for you."

Albert nods. There's nothing else he can say.

Christoph grabs his friend's arm; his speech picks up, to the point where he's almost talking too fast for his translator to catch his words. As he speaks, his face starts to twist up. "He says he's sorry."

"What?" Albert asks.

"He says he's sorry for what they did to you. He says he's sorry for his part in all of it."

Albert doesn't answer. He looks at Christoph, at the tears that are now leaking out of his eyes. He's always despised seeing a grown man cry, and it's making him uncomfortable. Christoph continues to blubber on, and his friend translates for him. "He says he should have taken the blame, but he was too scared. He says he's ashamed of it still."

Albert nods.

"He says he asks for your forgiveness."

Albert looks at the friend.

"My forgiveness?"

"Yeah, he says he's sorry and he wants your forgiveness."

Albert looks at Christoph and immediately starts to tally up the score, starts to count up the injuries he suffered that day. He remembers spending the night in filthy wet clothes, shivering, unable to warm up no matter what he tried. He remembers his blackened eye and bruised body. He remembers the hours he spent dreaming about vengeance against the boy who walked the fine line of friendship but who left him alone and humiliated. The worst thing he can do now, as this drunken man stands snivelling in front of him, is deny him the peace of mind. But if he looks closely, he can almost see what's happened to this man for the past forty years, and what's still happening to him; as he grew older, not a single trace of that brown haired boy was left behind.

Everything dies.

Albert nods.

It needs no translation.

Christoph holds out his hand. Albert hesitates for a moment before he stands. He returns the gesture, and they shake. Christoph continues to tell Albert he's sorry, over and over again. His friend puts his arm around him and tells him they should go. He looks back at Albert.

"He's drunk, eh? Very drunk. But you made his night."

He leads Christoph away. "Have a good one, eh?" he calls over his shoulder.

Albert raises his hand and watches them go, waits until they've disappeared completely. He opens his wallet and tosses down enough euros to buy the entire bar a couple of rounds. Then he heads for the door.

It's raining.

He prays that Rebecca is still right where he left her.

 **Forty-Four**

Ada finishes the steaming bowl of ramen she's been feasting on for the last little while. The waitress barely got her hands out of the way before Ada drove her chopsticks into the heap of noodles and broth and began slurping them up. She's never liked air plane food, and the flight was thirteen hours. If she didn't have a couple of protein bars in her purse with her she would have starved.

It's raining outside, and the tiny ramen restaurant is filled to the brim with business men and their lovely guests. Ada is the only one sitting by herself, though it suits her just fine. The tables here are small, so small there's barely enough room to eat without knocking someone with your elbow. She doesn't know how people can stand it. Ada's never been good with crowds. Of course, making her uncomfortable is what Wesker does best. He's probably relishing the idea of her packed into this place like a sardine in a can. Still, the soup really hit the spot.

There are thousands of lights on outside, thousands of flashing bulbs advertising products, restaurants, theatres. The streets are teeming with people, even at this hour. The sky is dark grey, on the verge of dusk. It's so cold outside, Ada can feel it deep down in her bones. She shivers at the thought of leaving. When the waitress comes by again, she asks for a bowl of steamed rice. She doesn't want to have to give up her seat. Besides, for a slender girl, she's got a voracious appetite. And she hasn't eaten in a while. Not this good, anyway.

She sees him step through the doorway. He strides towards her, and the waitresses practically jump out of his way. The business men turn their heads to look at him. He's an imposing presence; his height, his blonde hair, his glasses, and his long leather jacket. Ada chuckles. She's never seen him wear it before. It seems appropriate that he'd wear another animal's hide. She wonders why it's taken him this long to drag it out of his wardrobe. He pulls out the adjacent chair and sits down. The waitress puts down Ada's bowl of rice and asks, in English, if he'd like anything. He asks for some tea, but he won't drink it. Ada looks up at him through her lashes. "Nice jacket."

"Do you have the information with you?"

She frowns. He won't give her the satisfaction of flirting back.

"Of course I do."

"Finish your meal. You can give it to me outside."

Ada reaches for the soy sauce and drizzles it over the rice.

There's something different about him, but she can't tell what. He watches her intently as she devours the rice, never taking his eyes off her. When the waitress returns and puts the tea down in front of him, he shoves it towards her, without a word. She reaches out for it, since he's offered it to her. His silence is making her uncomfortable, but she won't let that on. Instead she concentrates on picking up every single grain, to the point where he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she licked the bowl clean. The second the last grain is gone, he asks for the bill. When it arrives, he puts down the cash. Ada smiles. "What a gentleman, picking up my tab."

"You don't have any money on you."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes."

She doesn't say anything, because he's right.

They stand, and he allows her to head for the door first. As she walks past, she feels his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the restaurant. It's a curiously affectionate gesture, but she prickles at it. A shiver runs right through her. She has to stay out in the open. There's no way he'd try anything with all those pedestrians outside. It's part of the reason why she agreed to come all this way to meet him. If there's one city in the world where you can't get away with anything, it's Tokyo. There are too many witnesses about.

Ada pushes the door open, and they start to walk. The heavy rain has stopped, replaced by a light drizzle and the threat of fog. Singing advertisements beckon to everyone who passes; ads for cameras, mp3 players, mobile phones and other gadgets. Outside a large electronics store, a line up has formed. Something is launching at midnight, and people have been waiting for hours. Ada doesn't understand that type of hysteria. Nothing has ever gotten her that excited. She looks at the patrons in the line. They're mostly teenagers. Ada remembers what she was doing when she was their age. It wasn't lining up for the latest toy, that's for sure. She starts to reminisce when she feels him guide her towards a long black car. He opens the door and unceremoniously nudges her towards it. She's shocked, but doesn't resist. She gets into the back seat, and he follows her. The driver pulls away.

Wesker turns to her.

"Miss Wong."

"Yes?"

She won't hand it over until he asks.

"You know what I want."

"I've got it with me."

"Put it on the seat."

Ada smiles coyly.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

He leans down and picks up a briefcase, then tosses it at her feet.

"You can count it first, if you'd prefer it that way."

"I was hoping you'd say please."

He doesn't answer. She rolls her eyes, opens her purse and hands him a reconnaissance disk. "It's all there."

"Is that so?"

She looks at him.

"That's so," she replies, with bite.

He nods. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out something shiny and black.

"Tokyo's a wonderful city," he starts, opening the device. Ada's heart starts to race. "The Japanese, they're remarkable. They have this... affinity... with appliances. Contraptions. Things to make life easier for the average person."

The door automatically locks.

Ada's palms start to sweat.

"For example," he continues. "This little indulgence is a portable DVD player." He looks at her. He's grinning. "Ever seen one of these?"

Ada nods.

"Really it's not all that extraordinary," he says. "Though this one is a lot more compact, a lot more portable. It's made by Sony." His grin grows wider. "Gotta love Sony."

"Wesker..."

"I thought I'd show it to you, since you came all this way. And what a perfect opportunity this is to try it out." He opens the drive and places the reconnaissance disk in the cradle, then closes it. It makes a whirring noise as it loads. The screen lights up, then goes black. White words flash in a corner of the screen.

No disk.

Ada lunges for the door, but she's too late. The DVD player comes crashing down on the side of her face. Stunned, she slumps onto the seat and grabs her chin. He's broken her jaw for sure.

"You've always loved making things difficult for yourself."

Ada strikes back at him with her leg. He grabs her ankle and twists it so that she cries out in pain. She goes limp, presses herself against the door. "Where's the disk, Ada?"

She shakes her head.

"You leave Billy Coen alone," she says through clenched teeth, slurring her words. Pain shoots through her face. It feels as if she's being stabbed with a hot poker.

"Where's the disk?" he asks again, calmly. She reaches behind her, tries to get her gun out of its holster beneath her jacket. In a blur, he picks her up and slams her back down on the seat, and all her weapons are gone. "Don't tell me you've gone sentimental on me, Ada. Give me the disk."

"I don't have it."

"You have it. You're not that stupid. As soon as you've had enough, you'll hand it over to me. And I've got a full tank of gas."

He picks her up and slams her down again for good measure. "Give it to me."

"What do you want with Coen?" she asks, groaning.

"There you go again, Ada. Taking me for a fool." He shakes his head. "Give me the disk."

The car comes to a stop. Ada slips her finger under the lock and flips it up, then kicks him square in the face and flings the door open. She scrambles out of the car, forgetting her plan of remaining in public sight, and bolts for the nearest alley way. She can hear her heart and breath pounding in her ears. She dives for a garbage bin and tries to get on top of it to scale a wall, but he catches up to her, leaps onto the garbage bin in a single bound, and drags her back down. He slams her down on the concrete so hard she loses her breath. She stares up at him, her eyes wide, and gasps. He straddles her, leans in so close she can smell him.

She remembers this kind of violence. She can't seem to get away from it.

"Give me the disk, Ada," he murmurs gently, stroking her cheek with a cold, gloved hand. "Or I'll smash your face in."

"Leave Coen alone," she says, her eyes watering.

"Give me the disk, Ada."

"Leave him alone!"

The gloved hand closes around her throat. He starts to squeeze. Her hands go to his. She tries to pry him off, but she can't. His hand is like a vice.

"Do you have any idea what you've nearly cost me?" he asks, his voice quiet, menacing. "Do you have any idea what damage you've done?"

"Leave him alone..."

"You thought all this time you had me under your thumb," he continues, watching her face turn red. "You've no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

"Fuck you!" she snarls.

"You want to play with me, Ada? Hrmmm? Is that what you want?"

Ada tries to scream, but can't. "Alright then," he says. "Let's play."

He raises his fist.

Ada closes her eyes, and pulls the real disk from her jacket. "What's this?" he asks, though he knows full well what it is. He releases her throat and eases off of her, then yanks her up and shoves her head onto his lap. Stunned, in pain, gasping for breath, she can't move. She lays next to him on the concrete ground, limp. He pulls the DVD player out of his jacket pocket again, then presses the button to open it. "What do you know? It still works." He chuckles and puts the disk into the cradle. "Remarkable, this kind of craftsmanship." He presses play, and the disk begins to spin.

The information he needs flashes across the screen.

He strokes her black hair as he watches it.

He looks down at her.

"That's my Ada," he says softly. "A natural-born coward."

He closes the player and puts it back in his pocket, then hoists her up to her feet. He brushes the dirt off of her clothes, then puts his arms around her and holds her close. He starts to walk her backwards towards the brick wall.

"What're you gonna do?" she asks.

"That was the final straw, Ada."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I told you what I'd do if you crossed me again."

She starts to struggle, but it's useless.

"You bastard!"

"Bastard?" He slams her against the wall. His jaw is tight. His fingers reach up and dig into her cheeks. He holds her fast. "Bastard? Do you know what a bastard is?"

The tears spill from Ada's eyes. She glares at him, in rage, in fear, helpless.

"A bastard is an illegitimate child," he says steadily. "A child born in shame."

"That's exactly what you are," she spits. She stops struggling. It won't make any difference now.

He shakes his head.

"No," he says, with a menacing smile. "I'm an orphan. There's a difference. But then, you know that, don't you, _Yin_?"

Ada's face turns ghostly pale.

He nods. "Yes," he says. "I suspect you do."

He leans into her, so close that his lips graze her cheek. "Give me one reason. One reason to let you live."

She starts to shake. She can hardly speak. Her head is filled with pain, her body is bruised, she can't breathe. It's cold, and she's shivering. The rain is starting to fall harder. Her face is soaked with tears. She's chilled to the bone. She has nothing left.

"Leon..." she whispers.

He nods.

"Of course," he says. "Of course."

He walks her back to the curb, where the car is waiting. He opens the door for her and eases her into the back seat. He orders the driver to take her somewhere, to get her cleaned up and looked after. Then he turns to her again. "I don't believe we'll be seeing each other again," he says. "But thank you so much for all your efforts." He leans in and kisses her. She's too weak to fight. "Pleasure working with you," he says with a smile. Then he closes the car door and watches them drive away.

 **Forty-Five**

The raindrops are dripping down the sides of the windows, and Claire won't take her eyes off the road. There's a heavy spray coming off the tires of the car ahead of them; it's a mix of water and dirt from the road, and Claire's wipers are on full tilt. She keeps her hands on the wheel and doesn't say a word. Her eyes are fixed squarely on the car ahead. Claire's never liked driving in the rain. She got the eccentricity from riding in the passenger seat of her mother's station wagon. Without fail, if it was raining, her mom would complain, state how dangerous it was. The neurosis passed on to Claire, though unwittingly. Now her fingers grip the wheel tightly, and her knuckles turn white, and her hair is down on her shoulders.

Leon is sitting next to her.

He's staring straight ahead as well, trying not to look too closely at the ugly scenery. They're on an industrial street in some town that used to be booming with steel workers. Big Industry has left its ugly, crumbling facades and towering smoke stacks behind. A lot of windows are boarded up, and the only places still conducting business are flea markets and pawn shops, and the occasional donut shop dive. There are no parks, no playgrounds, and the rain has forced a lot of the residents indoors. It's depressing, to say the least. Even still, a small grin keeps sneaking up on him; a grin he feels, given the circumstances, he should keep under wraps.

Claire was the first to wake up this morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and stretched her arms over her head, then turned to her left. There he was, lying on his back, in a calm morning doze. She smiled and took in his profile. His lips, slightly parted, kissed her the night before, went down on her, caressed her, whispered to her. His eyes, lightly closed, saw right through her, saw deep into a part of her that she'd kept locked up after so much guilt and shame. His fingers, relaxed, had touched her, felt her, entered her, stroked her. She didn't want to wake him up; he looked perfect. But eventually he opened his eyes and saw her, reached out and lightly dragged a finger over her cheek. "Hey," he said.

She smiled. Her lips are pink.

"Hey."

And he pulled her to him, and made love to her again.

They're going to be late. They were supposed to pick her up an hour ago, at an abandoned airport that mostly served private and charter flights until it fell to ruin. Wesker told them they were landing at one o'clock sharp; it's almost two. Claire's trying to make up for the lost time. She turns a corner and picks up speed. The rain starts to fall harder; the drops bounce off the hood of the car, pound the roof so that the vehicle fills with echoes. The heat in her Mustang hasn't been working lately. She can see her breath. She wants a coffee badly, but they can't stop to get one. They would have been able to, if they'd left earlier, but they had other things on their minds.

Claire can't stop thinking about the night before. She can't get the images out of her head. Leon's hips, bucking forward and back, swirling, his legs anchoring him to the bed, keeping hers apart. Leon's hands, on her breasts, on her face, in her hair, holding her steady, moving her in time with him. She hears his voice in her head, murmuring so softly, so gently, that she almost forgets the vulgarity of his words. "That's it, baby, fuck me... fuck me..." Over and over again. Every time she remembers it, her stomach flips over. Someone like Leon, so heroic, so boyish, even with the deep voice and the years of training and experience; she'd never have thought he could say such crass things. But the more she thinks about it, the more it seems to make sense. Where else can a man like him get away with it, if not in bed?

But the morning was different. The morning was relief, then anxiety. Neither of them knows what to do now. They don't know how things will be when other people are around. No doubt Chris will more than disapprove. Maybe Jill too, though she's the more understanding of the two. Ashley and her body guard are so into each other they don't care about the romantic interludes going on. And it's none of Cumberland's business one way or the other. Still, Claire and Leon are uncertain. And they're too shy to talk to each other. The things uttered in bed, no matter how coarse, always roll off the tongue more easily than those spoken in the morning light.

That's why Claire was so happy that, at dawn, it was more of the same.

"Claire..."

"... god..."

"... that's it, baby..."

A grunt, a gasp. "... you like it, don't you..?"

"... yeah..."

A tickle, a squeal of delight.

"... you're beautiful..."

"... Leon..."

"... and tight..."

"... harder..."

"... and wet..."

"... yes..."

His fingers reached down, pinched her clit while he rode her.

"... right here..." he whispered.

And she opened her eyes. "... right here..."

And she nodded. "... you're so close..."

And she moaned. "... so close..."

"... Leon..."

"... gonna come..?"

"... yeah..."

"... gonna come, baby..?"

"... yeah..."

"... good... fuck me... good..."

When they woke up it was ten to one, and they weren't even close. They aren't stupid; they know what they've done. They're late, and someone's counting on them.

It's not so easy after all.

They pull into the abandoned airport. The asphalt is cracked, bleached grey by the sun. It's crumbled away to such a degree that there are weeds growing out of it in places. The buildings were demolished long ago, save for one broken down tool shed that's slowly caving in under the weight of the rain on its sagging roof. The runways are overgrown with grass and splattered with bird shit. There's broken glass on the ground, but nothing around to explain where it came from.

A lone figure is standing in the centre of what used to be the airport. A small person, holding a single suitcase. Her face is grey, her head bowed, her long jacket soaked through with rain. Her boots are filling with water, but there's nowhere to take shelter, and she doesn't have an umbrella. There's no sight of the plane, or a chaperone, or anyone else to give them instructions, to tell them what's going on. She's been waiting for an hour, in the rain.

Claire stops the car; she and Leon get out quickly, as if running now will do any good. They rush over to her.

Rebecca hears their footsteps and turns around.

"Come here," Leon says, opening his jacket and putting his arm around her to shelter her from the rain. She doesn't move. Claire picks up her bag.

"Get to the car," she tells them, because she can't think of anything else to say. Leon ushers Rebecca along, and they go back to Claire's Mustang. It's finally warmed up, after blowing chilly air for almost a half hour. Leon covers Rebecca until she's sitting in the back seat, then gets into the passenger seat while Claire takes the wheel and makes her way back to the main road, then makes a left and starts to drive back to the shelter.

"I'm so sorry we're late," Claire says.

"Are you okay?" Leon asks Rebecca.

She's looking out the window; her large green eyes are reflecting the rain slicked streets, darkening them. She's leaning her arm on the window's edge. She's biting the knuckle of her index finger. Leon looks at her. "Rebecca?"

She looks at him. "Do you want a coffee or something? Are you hungry?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, then opens them again and goes back to staring at the scenery. "You tired?" he asks.

Her eyes are glassy, as maudlin as the weather.

"A little," she says quietly, her words muffled by her knuckle.

"We'll be there soon, don't worry."

"Okay."

It's quiet.

Then, softly, Rebecca starts to cry.

Claire and Leon look at each other. Then they look away.

No matter how good it felt, they should have been here. Sooner.


	10. Chapter 10

**Forty-Six**

Rebecca has always felt safe in Billy's arms. When she was alone at night, away from him for so long, she'd roll herself up in her bed sheets and remember the way he felt. She rubbed her cheek against her clean pillowcases and thought of his cheek brushing against hers. She could remember the smell of his skin and the sound of his voice. She touched herself, and thought of him. Her hero. Always.

Now, standing in Billy's hotel room in the heart of Berlin, in his arms, where everything is supposed to feel right, be right, Rebecca doesn't know what she wants.

He's resting his head on top of hers. His arms are around her. He's leaning forward and putting more of his weight on her than she'd like; it's hurting her neck, but she doesn't complain. She won't complain, because it's been so long since she's had to deal with so trivial a problem. And it's Billy's weight, Billy's arms, his hands and hips, his legs wreathed with hers. At the moment, nothing else matters.

"Did he hurt you?" he asks.

She shakes her head.

"No."

"If he hurt you, I swear..."

"He didn't."

Billy grits his teeth. Rebecca's voice, after what she's just told him, is too soft, too forgiving. She's very calm. She fits easily into his embrace. She's not shaking. He can't stand it.

"You're not gonna defend him, are you?"

"I'm not defending him."

"I'm gonna kill that bastard."

"No you're not."

He lets out an exasperated huff.

"Why's that?"

"Because you can't," she says. "No one can."

Rebecca slips away from Billy and starts to walk around the room. Billy stays where he is and watches her. She hasn't told him everything; he's aware of that. There are so many things that have passed in the years that he's been gone, too many to know in a couple of fleeting moments; it's one more thing he has to overcome, in a relationship filled with fleeting moments. It scares him. He's not up for the challenge. Not yet. All he wants to do now is make up for all the time he spent on the run, away from her. There are hours of nothing, hours of silence, that he has to fill with her, with her voice. It's a far less difficult task than coming to terms with the fact that, in his absence, she fell in love with someone else.

He doesn't want to believe that; that, above all else.

"What do we do now?" he asks.

"He's made preparations to fly me back home."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going with you."

"He's not gonna let you go with me."

"I mean you come with me," Billy says. Rebecca turns around, looks at him. Her face is wan. "If he wants you gone then he shouldn't have a problem with it. You can get back into the States with me. I mean, it might not be as glamourous as flying on a private jet..."

"It's not the glamour I'm concerned about," she says, "it's the danger of you getting caught."

Billy stuffs his hands into his back pockets and glares at her.

"You're still afraid I'll get caught?"

"Yeah, I am."

"And what, you're afraid you'll get caught with me and we'll both end up going to the chair?"

"I'm afraid you'll get caught by him, Billy. The Marines don't scare me at all."

"We'll be alright. Why can't you just trust me?"

"Of course I trust you. It's not that simple."

"He told you it was over, Rebecca. You're free. You don't owe him anything."

Rebecca's gaze slowly falls to the carpet. Billy's eyes are unrelenting. "But you still love him."

She nods. Billy turns around, looks at his duffle bag in the corner. "How can you love that guy?" he asks.

Rebecca lets out a sigh.

"I wouldn't have been able to answer that a couple of months ago," she says. "I would've said I didn't know."

"What about now?"

They look at each other. It breaks her heart to say it, but it's the truth.

"Now I think... for lots of reasons."

They stare at the floor, not saying anything. Billy knows all about the man Rebecca thinks she's in love with. Wesker's past is no big secret. Billy knows about the murders, the experiments, the torture, the betrayal. He knows the aspects of Wesker's life that affect Rebecca too. He knows the beginning of their professional relationship, and the events leading up to that fateful night in the Arklay Facility. He knows what happened afterwards, when Rebecca met up with the members of the Alpha Team in the Mansion, and he knows that it was Wesker, no one else, who tried to put a bullet through Rebecca's heart. He grits his teeth. Hollum told him that she'd be difficult to persuade, considering her mentor's powers.

So he decides to share that information with her, whether she wants to hear it or not.

"I don't know how he did it, but he's messed with your head somehow," he says.

"No he hasn't."

"Come on Rebecca, don't be naive."

"I'm not being naive."

"He's gone into you and... I don't know... rewired you..."

"You know that's not true, Billy."

"... brainwashed you, I don't know how he did it but he did..."

"Stop it."

"... so you think you love him. But you don't. You don't."

"I do."

He shrugs.

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"Wesker knows how to control minds. I don't know how, but he does, it must be a part of what he is or something..."

Rebecca's eyes narrow.

"What are you talking about?"

"He knows how to mess with peoples' heads. It's something to do with... I don't know... something about that Plagas sample he got his hands on... it works like dog whistles..."

"How do you know about Las Plagas?" she asks.

"... and he's infected you with it or something, I don't know."

"How do you know about Las Plagas?" she repeats. "How do you know about all this? Where are you getting your information from?"

Billy looks at her.

"From the guy that asked me to go in and get you back."

Rebecca's face flushes, bright red.

"Who asked you to get me back?"

Billy shrugs, as if she should already know.

"Your boss."

"What boss?"

"Hollum."

Rebecca's eyes light up. Her hands start to sweat. Her mouth goes dry.

Oh shit...

"Hollum?"

Billy nods. "You only talked to Hollum? You didn't get in touch with Claire or Jill or anyone from the team?"

"No. Why?"

Rebecca's breath quickens.

"What did he promise you? What did he pay you?"

"He didn't pay me anything!" Billy snaps, insulted. "He told me you were in danger, that Wesker has control over you and he's using you against your friends..."

"Is that it?"

"He told me he could get me pardoned," he replies. Rebecca starts to pace. "That's not the reason I did it. I did it so I could find you, so I could save you."

"Jesus, Billy, you have no idea what you've done..."

"What?"

"How often does Hollum contact you? How often are you in touch with him?"

"As often as he contacts me, I don't know."

Billy's heart starts to race. Rebecca's angry, and scared, and it has something to do with the man he's been reporting to. He's hoping he hasn't been duped.

"You reported where I was to him?"

"Yes."

"And where Albert was?"

"Whenever I could. The guy's difficult to keep track of. What's this all about?"

Rebecca sits down on the bed.

"Hollum was the guy Claire was taking orders from, when we were first sent in to destroy Umbrella's database. We found out he had ulterior motives for sending us in."

"What ulterior motives?"

"Hollum's a rival researcher who wants control over all the information about BOWs that Umbrella managed to collect. He changed the order from 'destroy' the database to 'retrieve', he wanted us to take Albert into custody and turn him over because no other data exists about him."

"Of course he wants information about Wesker, Becca, the guy's a fucking terrorist!"

"He wants scientific information, Billy, about Albert, so he can clone him."

Billy shakes his head and chuckles.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look, you just have to trust me on this, okay, I know who Hollum is and he's very bad news. Christ, he must know where..." She runs her hands over her thighs nervously.

"Clones. Clones. I can't fucking believe this."

She looks up at him.

"Believe it, Billy, because it's true. I saw one."

"A Wesker clone?"

"A William Birkin clone."

"Collect 'em all, huh?"

"This isn't funny, Billy, the three of us are in real danger..."

"The two of us, maybe," he corrects her, his voice stern and humourless. "We're in danger of getting caught on our way back into the States. Not by Hollum, and not by Wesker."

"It's not just you and me," she replies. She shrugs, because it's as simple as that. "It's not just you and me anymore. I have a responsibility..."

"Responsibility for what?" he demands. "To who? To him?"

She nods. He glares at her. "Everything I've done, I've done to get you back."

"I know," she murmurs.

"It was you and me," he says, walking over to the bed and sitting down next to her. "It was you and me, angel, the whole time. That's the way it's supposed to be."

She shakes her head.

"It's different now."

"Do you want it to be different?" They look at each other. "Is that honestly what you want?"

Rebecca raises her hand, lays it on his cheek. Her eyes are beautiful in the lamp light.

"No," she says. She runs her thumb over his lips. "I want it to be simple."

Billy nods.

He wants to stay angry. He wants to keep his own selfish interests in mind. But Rebecca's a different person now. He knows they've been apart for so long, and so many things have happened, that she's not the same person anymore. It's like meeting and falling for an entirely new woman. Someone who's older, more mature than the girl he met a decade ago. The woman seated on the bed is one who's had her heart broken and mended and broken again, who's seen and lived through unimaginable horrors, who through it all kept an eye on the future and looked ahead, and changed. He's looking at a survivor. And loving her for it. He takes her hand, holds it in his. "We have to figure out what to do," he says.

"You believe me?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"No. But I believe you mean what you say."

For the first time, Rebecca doesn't pick the fight. She smiles.

"Well, that's a start."

He looks at his duffle bag in the corner. It's been a permanent fixture in his life for the last five years.

"I'll find out eventually."

She reaches out with her other hand, touches his face again.

"Thanks." He looks at her, exhausted and confused. "For risking your life to save me. Again."

He nods and looks away.

"You got it, angel."

She leans in, and he embraces her. Outside the hotel room, someone swipes into the suite across the hall and noisily drags his luggage in. When he's gone, they both realize how silent the hotel is. They hold each other, listen to each other's breathing. Rebecca leans her head on Billy's shoulder and closes her eyes. He strokes her hair, gently rakes his finger tips through, pinches the short brown locks. She tilts her face up to his, and is immediately met with his lips, his hand on her cheek, his grateful sigh. Rebecca kisses him, because it feels so good to be kissed by someone that she understands, fully and completely, no matter how great the divide. Billy holds her and eases her down on the bed, and they shift until they're lying against the pillows, in each other's arms.

Billy thinks about where he'll take Rebecca once they get back home. A first date. Then he feels someone watching him. He looks up.

Albert Wesker is standing in the doorway.

Rebecca catches sight of him and freezes. Billy starts to reach for the gun in the night stand. "Don't move," Wesker says.

His voice, cold, falls into the centre of the room like a stone. Billy glares at him, keeps reaching for his weapon.

"Billy," Rebecca says, her eyes on Wesker, open, and haunted. "Don't move."

 **Forty-Seven**

Chris is walking back to his room. It's at the end of the hallway, nearest the toilet. Whenever someone flushes, it resonates between the dingy walls. He's dreading the moment when someone decides to heed the resounding call of nature while he's trying to sleep. He can imagine what it will sound like. He's hoping he'll be out cold by then.

 _Figures Kennedy'd give me the room next to the shitter._

Chris is still pissed off about his confrontation with the former government agent. It took everything he had not to punch the guy when he had the chance, especially after the Air Force crack. He hates when people point it out as a negative, but it comforts him to know it was the only thing Leon could think of to use. He was proud to join the force. He was a good pilot. If he hadn't opened his mouth that one last time, he might have still been there, 30 000 feet in the air. The only reason he didn't settle Leon's hash was because Jill told him he couldn't fight. Otherwise he would have let it rip.

 _At least I didn't quit,_ he thinks.

It makes him feel better, justified.

He doesn't know what Claire's been up to with Leon for the past couple of weeks, but he's afraid the crush she once had on him has sparked up again. Chris knows all about the affection she harboured for Leon during the first few weeks of the mission. He could always tell when she got off the phone with him; she couldn't stop smiling. He knows she was smitten.

He also knows Claire is the type of girl who can easily fall for someone. Hard.

And he's seen her pick up her broken heart more than once.

He hears the door to the kitchen open. Someone starts to stomp down the hall after him. He steels himself and keeps walking, hoping it's not Leon asking for it again.

"Hey!"

It's Jill.

He turns around and looks at her.

She's coming straight for him with a determined look on her face. He looks around, then points to himself.

"Are you talkin' to me?" he says.

She nods, keeps striding forward.

"Yeah, you."

He pretends to hook his thumbs into his vest.

"What can I do for you, little lady?"

A small cry of surprise escapes him as she steps up to him, throws her arms around him, and kisses him.

"You're hot when you behave," she growls with a lusty smile.

She shoves him into his bedroom and stalks inside, then slams the door behind them.

Chris is about to say something when Jill jumps on him. He catches her as her legs hike up his body and wrap around him. Despite her muscled limbs she's light as a feather, and Chris holds her up with ease as she continues to kiss him. He tries to speak but her lips, beautiful, soft, are pressed tightly to his. He gives up and slings one arm around her hips, the other around her waist. He grunts happily as Jill's fingers claw his shirt up, inch by inch. "My my, Miss Valentine," he says, chuckling at her eagerness.

"Shut up," she orders. Her legs slip to the floor again. She yanks his shirt off over his head and flings it into a corner. A quick push, and he falls back on his bed. It lets out an embarrassing creak. Jill doesn't seem to mind. She climbs on top of him, starts kissing down his chest. He looks at her, amused, and bewildered.

Jill thinks the look on Chris' face, earlier in the kitchen, is the most handsome look he's ever acquired. He was scowling, his brow was furrowed, the muscles in his arms were tense to the point of bulging. His stance was wide, ready to pounce. All combat pants and boots and white t-shirt, he looked like a fighter pilot in the midst of squaring off. He had to fight his first instinct, his instinct to beat the crap out of someone who'd pissed him off. And all for her.

It was all incredibly sexy.

Jill won't admit it, but she loves watching Chris fight.

It doesn't mean she wants him to fight, though.

Jill lowers herself to Chris' fly and looks up, to make sure he's still paying attention. He has an unabashedly dumbfounded look on his face, the same look he always gets when he's about to be intimate with her. If she doesn't prepare herself for it she ends up giggling, it's so incredibly stupefied. His large brown eyes follow her as she unzips his pants with her teeth. He doesn't look away for a second, so she's certain she has his undivided attention. Not that she's ever had to fight for it, of course. Still, there's a part of her that's nervous, and always will be. She doesn't like to deal with change. It would break her heart if he ever lost that wonderful look.

She slides his pants down and off, then reaches for his briefs. No matter what time of year it is, Chris always has a golden glow about him. She's made jokes about him going to tanning salons, though he's never stepped foot in one before. She's pale compared to him, but she loves it. It lets her know just where his skin is, so she can pay strict attention. Carefully, she eases him out of his briefs, until he's naked and hardening before her eyes. He props himself up on his elbows as Jill licks her lips. "Wow..." he whispers, in awe.

"Chris..."

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

They look at each other and smile. The name of the game is Jill-On-Top. He nods, then lets out a soft, almost mournful sigh as her wet lips split over him, and his length fills her mouth.

Jill works his sex slowly, firmly, grasping him with one hand, sucking and pumping him with her mouth. She runs her tongue along his skin, licking the underside of his cock with her violet eyes half-closed. Her lips smack with every dip down on his erection. She moans softly, enjoying his taste, his smell. Chris watches her with the same reverence for her that he always keeps burning brightly. In the past he's wanted to murmur things to her, little things he couldn't get away with saying at any other time. But the promise of her naked flesh never fails to make him speechless, helpless. At times like these, all he wants to do is feel, and enjoy.

The minute she saw him restrain himself for her, she wanted to please him, to let him know how much she appreciated his efforts. Lately it seems the team dismisses what Chris has to say whenever he voices an opinion. Leon keeps him in the dark about a lot of things, and Claire too, to a certain extent. It was like that during the early days of the mission too. Chris was the brunt of a lot of pretty-but-dumb jokes, a lot of cracks about his former profession and his enthusiasm for taking the bad guys out. Chris rolled with the punches, of course, but Jill could tell a part of him was hurt by the snarky comments. Jill thinks the team won't give Chris the credit he deserves, despite having proved himself again and again. She wants to tell him now, as she makes love to him, that she knows he's a very good man.

Chris' head falls back on the pillow. He puts both hands on his head, framing his face with his toned arms, and rocks his hips forward into his lover's mouth. Her tongue starts to dart, her mouth gets wetter with each gentle thrust. She works him over, until his eyes are squeezed tight and his fingers dig into the thin mattress. She looks up at him, gives him one long, final stroke, then whispers to him. "My turn."

Chris' eyes widen.

"Serious?" he asks.

She nods, and starts to crawl towards him. He collects her in his arms, kisses her, then starts to take off her clothes.

It's rare that Jill lets Chris go down on her. She's shy about him being down there for any extended period of time. Of course it feels good. It feels incredible. But she's always had a problem with it. She can't get comfortable. She worries about how she looks, how she tastes. She doesn't know that, to Chris, she's the most beautiful woman in the world, all over. He never pressures her into letting him indulge. He lets her make requests. This is one of those nights when the thought appeals much, much more than the bashfulness.

Chris has her naked in a flash. He must have been thinking about this for a while. He has the moves down smoothly, as if he'd rehearsed it over and over again in his head. Lying on Chris' bed, which will be her bed for the night as well, Jill looks up at the ceiling as his tongue sweetly, softly, licks her in allegiance. He sighs and eases up higher, spreading her legs further apart to be sure he tastes every inch of her. Jill moans, starts to wiggle beneath him; its been too long. She reaches down and runs her fingers through his hair as, moment by moment, he administers his affections. His tongue, wide, flat, flits from bottom to top to bottom again, circles her, inspires her to relax and enjoy. He looks up at her while his lips open and close, sees her smiling. He wants to tell her to surrender, to let herself come. But he doesn't want to speak.

Chris is so good Jill doesn't need much more persuading. She arches her back. Her legs shake. Her thighs close, holding his head fast. Her breath comes faster and faster, deeper and deeper. She moans, "Chris... Chris..." And he feels her throbbing, even as she gasps. He feels her clinching around his tongue and reaches up, tickles her clit with two lightly dancing fingers. The minute he touches her she seizes up, and a final call of his name brings a cascade of her down his chin. She starts to laugh, embarrassed, elated. Chris continues to go down on her until she's finished riding the wave. When her thighs open up again, he leans back, wiping his chin with a proud smile.

She's about to apologize when he crawls up the bed and embraces her from behind. Taking her cue, Jill tilts her hips forward, welcoming him. He puts his arm around her waist and parts her legs with his knee. Brushing her hair off the nape, he kisses her neck, her shoulders, as he eases himself inside her. Jill turns her head and looks him in the eye. He puts his hand on her cheek, keeps her facing him. He wants to look into her eyes as he glides in and out of her. Jill can't help but get lost in his gaze. She feels him within her, every inch of him hot, hard, and sees his face, his honest eyes, and knows he's utterly devoted to her. She starts to church her hips while in his arms. He grins and whispers, "... yeah... do that little wiggle for me..."

She puts a finger on his lips.

"Shhh..."

He nods, but when she starts to cater to him, rocking, swirling her wetness around him, his excitement can't be concealed. He starts to move faster, harder, cups her breasts with his left hand, thumbs her nipples. Jill looks down at his tanned hips urging himself inside her tight, pale body. She catches his gaze again as he kisses her. His kiss is interrupted by a low growl. He tries not to break it off, but he can't help it. He squeezes his eyes closed and grunts, losing himself, coming as quietly as he can but losing the fight. He burries his face in her neck and groans, holds her tightly against him as he shudders with satisfaction.

It's a while before his orgasm subsides. When it does, he pulls out slowly, kisses Jill gently, everywhere he can. He rolls onto his back and brings her to him, and she starts to stroke the hairs on his chest. He starts to giggle. "Hey," she says. He looks at her. She smiles. "Got something to say?"

He shakes his head, goes right on chuckling. "You alright, Redfield?"

"I think you fucked my brains out..." he says.

"You didn't have much to begin with," she jokes. He nods, keeps smiling, but a wave of melancholy comes over her. She feels bad for what she's just said. "Hey you," she murmurs.

"Mmm?"

"You're a good man," she says softly.

He smiles, holds her closer.

"You're the best, Chilly Jilly."

She leans her head on his chest.

"You know what's hot?" she asks.

"What?"

"You can fly planes."

He chuckles.

"I can fly planes."

"Can you fly me in a plane?"

"You got a plane?" he asks.

"Yeah, under my bed."

"Okay then."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow."

"Okay."

He kisses the top of her head.

Someone flushes the toilet.

"Fucking Kennedy," he grumbles.

Jill sighs.

 **Forty-Eight**

 _Rebecca wanted to tell him the name of the second man she ever slept with._

 _Not the first._

 _They were lying in his bed, in the penthouse that seemed to loom over the rest of the city. They were naked. Her head was on his chest. She could hear it, somewhere beneath the flesh, the solid muscles, the blood and bone. His heartbeat; a constant, gentle drumming, over and over. It threatened to lull her to sleep, but she didn't want to slip into the same, beautiful oblivion she always did when he made her come. She wanted to stay awake, and talk, and hear his voice. She wanted to be awake when he slipped out from the covers. No matter how good it was, how hard she felt it, she felt cheated when she woke up and he wasn't there._

 _Besides, she felt he had to know, if only to make sure what she was doing, feeling, was right._

 _The problem was how to approach it. She didn't want to just come right out and tell him. She wanted it to evolve, to let him divine her secret in conversation. Weren't all normal relationships built on such carefully laid stones? She couldn't simply tell him what she thought he should know. She was afraid he'd ask her too many questions she couldn't answer. She was particularly terrified of "Why"._

 _So she asked him a question first._

 _"Captain?"_

 _"Mmm?"_

 _"Who was the first girl you ever slept with?"_

 _He smiled._

 _"That's a rather forward question, Miss Chambers."_

 _She grinned._

 _"I'm curious."_

 _He ran his hand over the soft skin of her shoulder._

 _"Grace," he said._

 _Rebecca looked up at him._

 _"Grace?"_

 _He nodded. "Where did you meet her?" she asked, intrigued._

 _"At a bar. I saw her standing... waiting for a drink."_

 _Rebecca continued to look at him, at the line of his jaw, at his top row of perfectly straight teeth as his mouth moved. She still couldn't get over who he was, and what they were doing, back then. "She was alone, standing at the bar. I wanted to talk to her."_

 _Rebecca smiled._

 _"What did she look like?"_

 _"Very beautiful," he said, nodding slowly, losing himself in the memory. "Beautiful. Dark skin, the colour of coffee... smooth... and beautiful brown eyes. She was... lovely."_

 _He stroked Rebecca's shoulder while she ran her fingers lightly over his chest._

 _"You picked her up?" she asked, teasing. "That's rather FORWARD of you."_

 _He smiled._

 _"You should have seen me back then," he said. "It was the eighties. I had a sort of Billy Idol thing going on with my hair."_

 _They chuckled. Rebecca reached up and brushed his blonde hair back._

 _"You should cut it."_

 _"I should," he agreed. "But it's easier to just slick it back." He took her hand from his head and kissed her knuckles._

 _"So you were a hot Billy Idol lookalike, yeah. How did it happen?"_

 _He turned his head, spoke into her hair._

 _"I told her I thought she was beautiful. And we started talking. She said she liked my accent."_

 _"You still had a Southern accent?"_

 _"No, I put it back on for her. I thought it might impress her."_

 _They chuckled again._

 _"Did it impress her?"_

 _"It did," he said. He held her closer. "We talked for a long time. And she invited me to walk her home. So I walked her home. And she invited me up. So I went up."_

 _Rebecca looked at him. His glasses were off, his eyes almost closed._

 _"And?"_

 _"And..." They laughed again. "She seduced me."_

 _"Really?" she asked. "You didn't make a move?"_

 _"Not at all," he confessed. "Didn't raise a finger."_

 _Rebecca laid her hand, flat, on one of his pecs, and savoured the idea of him trusting someone. "Was it good?"_

 _"Wonderful," he said. He stroked her hair. "Grace..."_

 _"Did you ever see her again?"_

 _"No," he lied._

 _Rebecca told him about her first time weeks ago. She told him about Billy Coen, her dorm room, her tiny bed, and the things they did. He listened intently, asked her intimate questions with a mischievous grin on his face. The second she was finished, he scooped her up in his arms and took her back to his bedroom, did all the things to her that she said Billy had done. Through it all, she thought of the two of them. When her eyes were closed, it was Billy touching her, Billy's hands parting her legs, Billy's tongue running over her hips. When she opened her eyes, it wasn't Billy anymore. The perfect lips, the strong fingers, the teeth, the arms, the voice whispering her name, the hard cock... it was Albert, all Albert._

 _The third man._

 _"Who was your second?" she asked._

 _He grinned, leaned down and murmured in her ear._

 _"My my, Miss Chambers, you're inquisitive tonight."_

 _"I was just wondering," she said innocently._

 _"I'll bet you are," he said. He took a deep breath. "Annette," he replied._

 _Rebecca looked at their reflections in the mirror across the room._

 _"Annette Birkin?"_

 _"Ah, she wasn't Annette Birkin then," he said. "She was just Annette. Dr. Annette. Come to think of it... I can't remember her maiden name."_

 _"You dated her?"_

 _"No. Things just happened... back then."_

 _"Wasn't she a..."_

 _He smiled, waited for her to finish her sentence. "... a battleaxe or something?"_

 _"Battleaxe," he laughed. "I haven't heard that term in a while."_

 _"Well, you know what I mean."_

 _"You might scoff, but Annette was very pretty when she was young," he admitted._

 _"Really?"_

 _"Oh yes. She looked like Jodie Foster. She was... irritating as hell..." He shook his head at the absurdity of it all. "But very pretty. I was working in the lab one night, and she came in, all dressed up." He looked up at the ceiling. "And I couldn't resist."_

 _"Did you seduce her?"_

 _"No," he said. "She came on to me."_

 _"Right."_

 _"I swear."_

 _They looked at each other._

 _"Boy, you don't even have to try, do you?" she joked._

 _He chuckled._

 _"Not back then, I didn't."_

 _It was quiet. Rebecca held her breath. He had to ask her, after all that. And he did._

 _"And you?"_

 _"Hmm?"_

 _"Who was your second man?" he asked, his voice low, soothing._

 _Rebecca sighed. Time to come clean._

 _"Chris."_

 _He looked down at her._

 _"Redfield?"_

 _She nodded. She felt his chest raise, then fall slowly, evenly. "Are you mad?"_

 _"No," he said, and his voice was calm, soft._

 _"You're sure?"_

 _"Why would I be mad?"_

 _"You hate Chris."_

 _"And he hates me," he agreed. "But your past is yours. It has nothing to do with me."_

 _"I thought you'd be mad," she said. "I've been wanting to tell you."_

 _"Why's that?"_

 _"I just thought... you should know."_

 _"Dear heart..." He looked down at her. "Some things, I don't need to know. Despite how much you care... for me."_

 _They were quiet._

 _"Was it good for you?" he asked._

 _She smiled._

 _"A little," she said. "I liked what it did for me better than doing it."_

 _"What did it do for you?"_

 _"I wasn't lonely. That night."_

 _"Mmm..."_

 _She made light of it, so he wouldn't read too much into her last comment._

 _"He called me Jill."_

 _"Right in the middle?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _"Cad," he teased._

 _She let out a soft giggle._

 _"I know, huh?"_

 _"Fucking Redfield," he said in disdain. They chuckled. "Literally, fucking Redfield."_

 _"He was drunk."_

 _"Were you drunk too?"_

 _"No. Stone cold sober."_

 _"Mmm..."_

 _His lips found their way to her forehead. He pulled her on top of him. She felt him hardening between her legs. He held her face in his hands, kissed her. Then he pulled away and revealed a devilish grin._

 _"My cock's bigger," he purred._

 _She laughed as his hips tilted up between her legs, bringing her closer to him._

 _She leaned down and whispered in his ear._

 _He let out a low, proud growl, and his arms, his legs, held her fast against him. He didn't let her go until the sun came up._

 **Forty-Nine**

 _He met her at a bar in downtown Raccoon. He was sitting with William, sipping Southern Comfort, when he saw her across the room. She was standing alone, looking at her watch, and appeared more and more frustrated as time wore on. He didn't say anything at first, chose instead to listen to William, who gabbered on and on about the experiments, and the advancements Umbrella was making. A smile worked its way onto Albert's lips. William stopped, annoyed. "Are you listening to me?" he asked._

 _"Yes," Albert replied, without catching his partner's gaze._

 _"You don't seem to be too interested," William said, peeved. "Should I change the subject?"_

 _"What do you think?" Albert asked, nodding in the woman's direction. William turned his head._

 _The woman at the bar was about William's age, tall and slender, with long, braided hair. Her skin was dark, majestic, dusted with gold under the lights. The dress she wore was red and clung to her curves. She leaned forward on the bar, and Albert's gaze glided towards her rump. He sighed, satisfied by the angle of her body, then downed what was left in his glass._

 _"The girl at the bar?" William asked._

 _"Yes."_

 _William shrugged._

 _"She's pretty."_

 _He didn't offer more than that._

 _"She's beautiful," Albert said._

 _"And?"_

 _"And I'm gonna say hello." Albert started to rise._

 _"What are you doing?" William asked. He reached across the table. Albert, still poised in the air, looked at him._

 _"I'm going to introduce myself. What does it look like?"_

 _"You're not thinking of going home with her, are you?" William's voice was low, irritated._

 _"I'd like nothing more than to go home with her," Albert replied. "If I'm lucky, I will."_

 _"Come on, Wes!" William said._

 _Albert sat down again._

 _"Yes?"_

 _William glared at him._

 _"You don't seriously think it's a good idea to introduce yourself to a woman who doesn't work for Umbrella, do you?"_

 _"Is that a prerequisite?"_

 _"Look at her, Wes! She's completely beneath you!"_

 _"I'd like nothing more than to have her beneath me," Albert said with a smirk._

 _"There are countless women at the Facility that could use a date," William said. "You could take your pick."_

 _"I'm not interested in dating anyone at the Facility. I'm not particularly interested in dating, period. I'd just like some… company… is all." He watched the woman turn around and glance over the room. She caught Albert looking at her. She smiled, and quickly looked away._

 _"I suppose I'm not company enough?" William asked. He sounded angry._

 _Albert smiled at him and stood up._

 _"What do you think?" he asked. "Scientist, or Southern Gentleman?"_

 _William's glare grew fierce._

 _"You're making a mistake," he hissed._

 _"On the contrary," Albert replied. "I should have made this decision a long time ago." He put his glass back down on the table, then walked towards the bar._

 _The woman blushed as Albert sauntered up to the bar. She kept her eyes down on her drink and tried not to look at him. But curiosity got the better of her, and she glanced up to find him peering at her. She smiled. "Hi," she said._

 _"Hello there."_

 _She giggled._

 _"Are you a cop or something?"_

 _He chuckled and looked away._

 _"What makes you say that?" he asked in a soft, Southern drawl._

 _She shrugged._

 _"You look… really… clean cut."_

 _He smiled._

 _"No, I'm not a cop," he said. "Not a cop. I'm a doctor."_

 _"A doctor?"_

 _"Yes ma'am."_

 _"Wow. I didn't know doctors came in here."_

 _"No?"_

 _"You're a little young for a doctor, aren't you?" she asked._

 _"Really?" He shook his head, still smiling. "Somebody better tell my supervisor, then."_

 _"No, no," she said, apologetic. "I don't think you're too young to be a doctor, I'm just…" She turned away, rolled her eyes. "I just felt like making a fool out of myself, that's all. Shit." She looked down at her shoes, embarrassed._

 _"It's alright, I don't mind," he said. He leaned closer. "I get it all the time. I'm not as young as I look."_

 _"How old are you?" she asked._

 _"Twenty-three."_

 _She laughed._

 _"You're younger than me, that's for sure," she said._

 _"Yeah? I figured you were my age. Maybe even younger."_

 _She looked at him with a smile and an arched brow._

 _"Really?"_

 _"Yes ma'am. I figured you were maybe twenty-one, twenty-two…"_

 _She laughed again._

 _"You're a charmer, I'll give you that."_

 _"Well ma'am, I know it's impolite to ask a lady her age, so I'm just gonna have to let you volunteer the information. But I must say you've got me curious."_

 _She smirked._

 _"I'm thirty-one," she said._

 _He blushed, looked away._

 _"I got a confession to make," he said._

 _"Oh yeah?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _"What's that?"_

 _"I've been watching you for a little bit."_

 _"I noticed."_

 _"And I realized you're the most beautiful woman in this room."_

 _"Really?" she asked, amused._

 _"Yes ma'am. And then I wanted to know why you're standing here all by yourself, with no one around to talk to."_

 _She looked him up and down._

 _"What's your name?" she asked._

 _"Albert."_

 _"Well, Albert," she said, "it just so happens I've been stood up."_

 _He looked shocked._

 _"Stood up?"_

 _"Yep."_

 _"By who?"_

 _"By the guy I'm no longer seeing," she replied, "as of this moment."_

 _Albert's smile faded a little._

 _"Boy, that ain't too smart of him to let a pretty lady like you get away."_

 _She finished her drink._

 _"Well, he'll get over it, I'm sure."_

 _"Mind if I say something a little forward?"_

 _"Not at all."_

 _"He is one dumb son of a bitch."_

 _She laughed._

 _"He sure is." Her laugh faded. She smiled at him. "I'm Grace. Thirty-one." She offered him her hand._

 _"I'm Albert, twenty-three, and I sure am glad to meet you." They shook._

 _"Do me a favour, Albert?" she asked._

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"Buy me a drink and stop calling me ma'am."_

 _He laughed._

 _"Where are my manners?"_

 _They chatted for a while, Grace drinking a martini, Albert sipping another Southern Comfort. She laughed easily at the things he said. There seemed to be no end to the amusement his accent provided her. He was polite and charming. He asked her all sorts of questions about herself, and was thoroughly interested in her responses. The longer the night wore on, the more he asked her, the more she found herself attracted to him, despite the age difference. She asked him about himself and his work, and his answers were long and engaging, but he didn't reveal too much about himself. Throughout their conversation, it looked as though she wanted him to dispense with his shy mannerisms. She asked him things that were bold for a first meeting. He blushed, and remained an enigma._

 _At twelve o'clock, Albert felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned his head. William was standing behind him, a small grin on his face. "I'm heading out now," he said. Grace looked at Albert, then at William._

 _"Is this a friend of yours?" she asked Albert._

 _"Yeah, this is William," Albert replied, still lilting. "He works with me too."_

 _"I'm Grace," she said, extending her hand. They shook._

 _"Nice to meet you. Grace..?"_

 _"Johnson."_

 _Albert looked at her._

 _"Really? Johnson?"_

 _"Yeah," she said, and chuckled. "Surprised?"_

 _"I knew someone with the last name…"_

 _"I'm gonna go now, Wes," William said, cutting him off. "Early day tomorrow."_

 _"I'm gonna stay here," Albert replied. "To make sure Miss Johnson gets home alright."_

 _"Okay, well then, I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early," William replied. He turned to Grace. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Johnson." He nodded, then briefly glanced at Albert before making his way to the door._

 _When he was gone, Grace looked at Albert._

 _"He works with you?"_

 _"Yeah, he's a doctor too."_

 _"He's even younger than you are, isn't he?"_

 _"Yeah, by two years."_

 _"He was sitting there by himself that whole time?"_

 _"I guess so, yeah." He winked at her. "He's a little uptight."_

 _Grace nodded, but it was obvious she was uneasy. She thought she recognized the look in William's eye as he left; jealousy._

 _It was one o'clock when Grace decided she needed to get back to her apartment. Albert strolled alongside her and continued their polite conversation. She stole glances at him when he wasn't looking. Her voice got softer and softer as they made their way through one of several residential areas in Raccoon. When they reached the stone steps of her apartment building, she turned and looked at him. "I guess you have to go now, huh?" she asked._

 _"Not particularly," he said with a grin._

 _"Don't you have to work early tomorrow? I thought I heard your friend say something like that."_

 _"Yeah, I guess, but that's alright. I'll probably walk home from here. Nice night out and all."_

 _They smiled at each other._

 _"Nice night," she echoed._

 _"Yeah."_

 _"Maybe you'd like to see the view from my balcony," she said._

 _He blushed._

 _"Maybe."_

 _She smiled._

 _"Come on up."_

 _They took the stairs to the third floor, and Albert followed Grace to the last door on the right. She unlocked it and they strolled inside. It was a comfortable one bedroom, with colourful paintings on the walls, a couch brimming with pillows, and beaded curtains over one of the doorways. Grace put her purse down on the coffee table. "It's a nice place," Albert said, glancing around._

 _"Thanks," she replied._

 _She walked into the room, then stopped._

 _He followed behind her._

 _She reached back, found his hand without looking. She stroked his knuckles with her thumb. He reached out, ran his hand over the dark skin of her bare arm. She turned and looked at him, at his eyes, open wide in veneration. She stepped close to him, tilted her face up, and kissed him. And kissed him again. His hands slid over her arms, to her face, rested on each of her cheeks. She put her hands on his wrists and guided him, step by step, to her bedroom behind the beaded curtain._

 _She lay down on her bed and invited him to lay down next to her. Her hands caressed his ears, his face, his shoulders. She unbuttoned his shirt and opened it, removed it for him, tossed it aside. She reached out, took his hands, placed them over her breasts. He closed his eyes and sighed when he felt them. He kept them closed as she undid his belt, his pants, his shorts. When he opened them again he saw her gazing down at him, a small smile on her face._

 _He opened his arms, embraced her, rolled them over so that he lay on top of her. He eased her out of her dress, took the time to enjoy the feel of her soft skin beneath his palms. He didn't kiss her the entire time, choosing instead to memorize as much of her as he could. When she was naked, he leaned down and kissed her, ran his tongue over her lips, over her neck. He moaned softly when she kissed him back, when she touched his ass, when she reached down and found him hard, and stroked him, slowly. He kissed her breasts, licked her nipples, held her as close to him as possible._

 _"You're beautiful," he murmured._

 _"Thank you…"_

 _"… so beautiful…"_

 _"Albert…"_

 _"… Grace…"_

 _"You can have me now, baby…"_

 _He blushed._

 _"… now?"_

 _"… yeah…come on now… don't be shy…"_

 _He looked away, tried to hide his smile, his nervousness._

 _She kissed him gently, reached down, found him, and guided him in._

 _He groaned when he felt her heat surround him. He didn't move for a moment, to let what was happening really sink in. Grace kissed the skin beneath his chin as he shuddered, encouraging him to move, to thrust. He started to rock back and forth above her, sliding in and out as carefully as he could. He looked down at her, grateful, and adored her. She whispered to him._

 _"You've never done this before, have you?"_

 _He kissed her._

 _"No ma'am, but I sure do appreciate the opportunity."_

 _They chuckled, and didn't stop until well into the next morning._

 _A week later, they called him in early. They told him they had new recruits for the experiments. He knew what that meant. New people picked off the street, drunk, homeless, or alone, brought in, sedated, then shot up with the new serum prototypes. They were derelicts, mostly, or asylum patients, or criminals. He didn't feel sorry for them._

 _He walked into the examination room as confidently as he always did, holding the briefings they gave him the night before. He read them over a couple of times, to make sure he was prepared. He looked up from his notes and saw a number of the other researchers. Six people were strapped down to examination chairs. Their wrists and ankles were secured. Two of them were gagged. All of them were moaning quietly, drugged, unaware of where they were, or what was going on._

 _William was there, too._

 _And Dr. Marcus._

 _"Dr. Wesker," Marcus said. "Right on time."_

 _"Good morning, Dr. Marcus," he said. He nodded at William. "Dr. Birkin."_

 _"Good morning, Dr. Wesker," William said with a grin._

 _"Dr. Birkin has done us a favour by hand selecting the new recruits," Marcus said. "They've all been prepped, so I suggest the two of you conduct the experiment in a timely fashion. First injection is slated for six a.m. sharp." He nodded at them. "Let me know if you witness anything particularly out of the ordinary. I'll be in my office."_

 _"Yes sir," William said._

 _Marcus left the room. William handed Albert a clipboard._

 _"Start from the left," he said._

 _Albert walked over to the first recruit. He'd been beaten. The next was another man, probably mentally ill, who was muttering something incoherent. The third man was out cold. His head was shaved. A large gash split his skull into two perfect halves. Albert took note of their conditions prior to the first injection. He stopped in his tracks when he reached the fourth candidate._

 _Someone had beaten her so badly her left eye was caked in blood. Her head bobbed up and down, partially from the assault, partially from the drugs. Albert looked at her, assessed what they'd done to her. They chopped off her braids, bruised her beautiful skin. Her right ear was missing._

 _"Grace…"_

 _He looked up and glared at William. William's face was cold, sinister._

 _"Go on," he said._

 _Albert looked over the other two candidates. They were fading fast. He took note of their conditions, then turned to William. "First injection to be administered in five minutes," Will said, checking his watch. "Hypothesis: subjects will lapse into seizures, as noted in experiments AS 567 and AS 573. The first stages of mutation should manifest in roughly six hours." He looked at Albert. "And will no doubt be very, very painful." He smirked, then looked at his watch. "Just enough time to take a leak." He strolled out of the examination room. "Prepare the injections, will you, Wes?" he called over his shoulder._

 _Albert watched him go, then kneeled down in front of Grace, tilted her chin up. Their eyes met, but she didn't seem to recognize him. She moaned, and a trail of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth._

 _He knew what he had to do._

 _"My apologies, Grace," he said. His voice was cold, devoid of emotion. "Believe me, it's better this way."_

 _He stood, walked behind her, put his hand on her chin, put his other on her shoulder, and with a swift, brutal twist, snapped her neck._

 **Fifty**

Claire is waiting in her room. She knows Leon is going to show up any moment. She recognized the look her gave her at dinner. Another night of instant ramen, with apples for dessert. Claire thought about the Facility and the late night calls to Cha Liu's. She always looked forward to ordering from them. It got to the point where she just mentioned her name and they knew what she wanted. She remembered how good their signature dishes were. It was much better than boiled water in Styrofoam bowls. She looked up briefly at Leon. He was looking at her. He opened his eyes a little wider, then glanced at the hallway that leads to her room. She gave him a slight nod, then went back to her bowl of noodles. They all ate in silence and tried not to look at each other.

No one spoke to Rebecca.

Claire sighs and thinks about her now. She's still pale, still quiet, still looks as though she's been left out in the rain, though she had a bath when she got in. No one wants to say anything to her, Claire included, because they're afraid they'll upset her. The moment she stepped into the shelter and saw Chris, she started sobbing. Chris put his arms around her, cradled her head in one of his hands, and let her tire herself out. Chris has always had a soft spot for Rebecca. And he knows, no matter how betrayed he felt, Rebecca doesn't deserve a broken heart.

Claire smiles. She admires her brother's ability to forgive. It's always so difficult for him to get over his initial shock. He has a habit of succumbing to his passion without thinking things through, then apologizing for it first thing when he's ready. It's one of his most irritating and endearing qualities. Chris has a big mouth, but he's still a good guy. Claire is the one who can hold a grudge.

One time, when they were still teenagers, she went for weeks without speaking to him after a fight. She said she was sick of his attitude, his behaviour, and swore she'd never forgive him. He snapped back at her, helped her along with the silent treatment, leaving a room when she came in, or otherwise ducking out of her way. Neither of them looked each other in the eye.

Claire was dating someone at the time, some lanky kid that lived a couple of blocks away. She found out he was cheating on her, then broke up with him and ran to her room, crying her eyes out. She didn't come down to dinner that night. Later on, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She asked who it was, and found out it was Chris, holding a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. He asked if he could come in, and she told him he could. He put the food down on her dresser, then walked over to her, meek, and put his arms around her. She started sobbing again, and he told her the guy was a shithead anyway, not worthy of her. She thanked him, and he left, gave her her space.

She ate the spaghetti, despite the fact that it was cold, and Chris went down the street, found the punk, and kicked the crap out of him for breaking his little sister's heart.

The knock on her door now, while she's standing in one of the shelter's bedrooms, startles her.

It's funny how often memories collide with reality.

"Yeah?" she asks.

Leon pokes his head in.

"Hey."

"Hey," she says. She sits down on the bed. He walks in and closes the door.

"How are you?" he asks.

"Good, good. You?"

"Good."

He sits down next to her, puts his hand on her thigh. She turns her head. They try not to kiss, but can't help it. He puts his arms around her, pulls her close to him. The angle is awkward, but Claire doesn't care. They make out like teenagers in a study session. They stop after a moment, to catch their breath.

"How are you feeling?" he asks her, caressing her cheek with his knuckles.

"I'm alright. I feel a little…" She takes a deep breath and lets it out. She can't finish her sentence.

"It's all those noodles," he says, kidding. She smiles.

"No, it's not the noodles. I feel guilty."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"About what?"

"A lot of things. Not picking Rebecca up in time, for one." She looks at him. "He really broke her heart, huh?"

"I guess so," Leon replies. "Looks like it, anyway."

"I feel bad for her," she confesses. "And I feel bad that we left her standing in the rain for all that time."

"We have to make it up to her."

"Yeah." She leans her head on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"Guilty."

"About what?"

"Same things you feel guilty about," he says, stroking her head with one of his big hands. He finds the elastic and starts to ease it out. She chuckles and helps him along. Soon, her auburn hair is down on her shoulders again. "And other things."

They look at each other. He's gone melancholic. She recognizes the look.

"Ada?" she murmurs.

He nods. Claire nods too. "And Steve," she says.

"Yeah."

He takes her hand, squeezes it.

"Maybe we should cool it for a while," she says.

He shakes his head.

"I don't want to cool it," he says. "Why would I want to do that?"

"I don't know. To figure out… what you want."

He grins, a sad kind of grin.

"What makes you think I don't know what I want?"

She shrugs.

"I just figured you'd need time…"

He shakes his head.

"What about you? Do you need time?"

She leans against him.

"No."

He puts his arm around her.

Relief washes over them. This is the talk they've both been afraid of having; the talk where they mention the obvious, the elephant in the room. Leon's been in love with Ada for as long as Claire can remember. She knows he's slept with her, thought of her almost constantly, told her he loved her. She remembers the fight they had at the Facility, when he missed a meeting to make love to Ada at a motel on the outskirts of town. She thought their relationship, if they ever had one, would start off rocky, filled with angst and twists and turns, filled with painful revelations. Leon thought he'd have to baby Claire, to make her realize the shit she's gone through isn't necessarily her fault, despite the fact that she was there in the thick of it. Claire brings everything on to her shoulders and clings to it, to punish herself for everything she deems a failure. He thought he'd have to hold her and listen to her try to fight back tears. They were both prepared to go through the worst, to be with the other.

But things have just kind of settled between them, fresh and quiet, like a blanket of snow.

For now.

"What are we gonna do about Rebecca?" Claire asks.

"Wait until she's ready to talk, I guess."

"I'm worried about her."

"Me too."

"Something's happened to her," she says. "I don't know what."

"She'll tell us eventually."

"If it was me," Claire says, and he looks at her. "If it was me, you know what I'd do? I'd tell myself it's Wesker, over and over again. I'd remind myself of who he is and what he is and all the suffering he's caused. And try and work it out." Leon smiles. "But you know what?"

"What?" he asks.

"I don't think it would do much good."

He kisses her forehead.

He finds her lips again, collects her in his arms. They lay back on her bed, kissing, legs entwined. Leon pushes Claire's shirt up, higher and higher, until she pulls it up over her head and throws it aside. She takes his shirt off, hears the static cling as she runs her hands through his hair. He moans softly as her hands travel down his back, as one of them grabs his ass. His hips start to churn. He unbuckles his belt.

The door to the bedroom opens.

"Hey Claire Bear, I bought ice cream," Chris says with a bowl in his hand.

He looks up as Leon and Claire whip their heads around to look at him.

He stands there for a moment, startled, then reaches for the door and slams it closed behind him as he leaves.

Leon and Claire look at each other.

"I'm fucked," Leon says, with a determined nod.

They start laughing, then return to each other, their hands everywhere.

"Stay on his right," Claire says between kisses. "He's got a weak left hook."


	11. Chapter 11

**Fifty-One**

The plane landed twenty minutes ago. He hasn't opened the door.

Rebecca is sitting in front of the door. She's biting her nails. She doesn't know where he is. The minute they landed he stood up and disappeared. She thinks about knocking on the door of the cockpit, to see if the pilots know where he is, but she loses her nerve after trying the door. It's locked. She figures they don't want to be identified. Or they're on strict orders to remain out of sight. Whatever the case, all Rebecca can do is sit and stare at the door out.

It's raining outside. She can see the drops as they hit the oval windows of the plane. Outside, she can see the abandoned airport. It's grey and gloomy outside. It's fitting. They might be refuelling; it makes sense, after such a long flight. She doesn't know how they'd accomplish that – it's obvious the place is deserted. Maybe he's not opening the door because he doesn't want her to get wet.

One final act of compassion.

Rebecca doesn't want to think about what will happen once she's on solid ground again. She knows she's going to have to figure out a plan. She knows she's going to have to map out the next few weeks of her life, the next few months, the next few years. She wants to hide. She wants to be someplace with a lock on the door. She wants to surround herself with food and blankets and books. She wants a cocoon. It's a huge, looming thing in front of her, on the other side of the door; her future. Her life from this point on.

Her life without Albert.

Billy will catch up with them, she knows that for sure. He's probably en route right now. No doubt he's travelling under a fake passport. No doubt his right arm is covered up, to make sure he's not discovered. She didn't get the chance to say anything to him when she woke up. He was already gone. She chuckles, cynical. Billy was gone when she woke up in the morning.

But Albert, Albert was there.

Rebecca's mind starts to wander. She starts the wheels turning in her head. She does this whenever someone breaks her heart. She goes through her memories of him, one by one, and puts a twist on them. She tells herself they weren't real. She tells herself there was a lie, an ugly intent, behind every act of kindness, goodness, passion. Every act was just that – an act. She lists each memory, one by one, and spins them into something jagged and devious.

His gifts to her: part of the ruse.

His revelations about himself, his past: all lies, to make her feel sorry for him.

His lust, his body: a chance to use her for his own deceitful carnal urges.

Her eyes start to water, but she doesn't let the tears fall. Even she doesn't believe all this was a lie. If she thinks about it long enough, however, and hard enough, she will.

She hears him walking up the aisle and turns her head. He stops fifteen feet away from her. They look at each other. His face is expressionless. He touches his earpiece and says, "Open the door." A steward comes out of the cockpit and follows his orders, then disappears into the cockpit again. It's raining hammers and nails.

Rebecca looks at him.

"So this is it, huh?" she asks.

"Yes."

She nods.

"I didn't think it would end like this," she says.

"No."

"Did you?"

"Yes."

Her mouth falls open, slightly.

"Right from the start, huh?"

"You're free to go," he says.

"Answer me."

"You haven't asked a question."

"Did you think it would end like this right from the start?" she says, punctuating each word.

"Yes," he says.

She shakes her head.

"You're a goddamn liar."

She starts to walk towards him. He steps back, keeping the distance.

"The door is open, Miss Chambers…"

"Don't you dare call me that."

"… there's no reason for you to stay."

"You owe me, you son of a bitch."

She keeps walking. He keeps stepping back.

"Turn around and go," he says.

"You owe me big. You owe me your allegiance."

"Turn around and go."

"You owe me your respect."

"Now, Miss Chambers."

"After all I did for you, after all I put up with for you, you owe me an apology and a goddamn kiss goodbye."

"Don't come any closer," he says. He's almost at the end of the aisle. Once his back hits the wall, there will be no place left to go.

"I'm leaving on my terms. You owe me."

"Stay away from me."

"Don't you fucking move away from me!" she yells. She keeps walking forward. He keeps moving back.

"I said stay away!"

His back hits the wall. She stops.

He sounds desperate.

She's never heard him sound like this before.

"You're a fucking coward," she growls.

"Get out."

"You're a snivelling coward, you know that Albert?"

"Get out of here."

"I should've known."

"Yes, you should have known. Get out."

"What'll you do to me if I don't?"

"I'll throw you out myself."

"Then come here and throw me out."

He doesn't move. "See?" She starts to move closer to him. He shakes his head.

"Don't come any closer."

"Throw me out, chicken shit."

"Stay away from me."

"Throw me out, you son of a bitch! Throw me out!"

"Stay where you are."

"Throw me out, goddamn it!"

"Don't move!"

She walks up to him. He shakes his head, looks like he can't breathe. He reaches up and unbuttons the first two buttons on his shirt.

"Don't you dare order me anywhere," she says. He doesn't answer. "Don't you dare tell me where I can go or when I can go, you liar, coward." She glares at him. He doesn't speak. She reaches up and rips his glasses off his face. He looks at her. "Kiss me goodbye," she says.

"No."

"Kiss me goodbye."

"No."

"You owe me."

"You're a cheating slut."

"And you're a bisexual son of a bitch."

He shoves her away. She nearly falls over.

"Don't you ever call me that!"

"You want to hurt me?" she asks, challenges. "I can hurt you just as bad!"

"Get out!"

"You have one last chance, Albert!" she screams. Her face is terrifying. "You say one more thing and you can never take it back, no matter how much you beg me, no matter what you do! I've had it!" She starts to cry. "I've fucking had it!"

He watches her, doesn't move a muscle. She looks at him, helpless. She walks over to him, dragging her feet, her arms hanging at her sides, limp and useless. She stops when she's within his reach, when she can smell his cologne. He looks down at her. She puts one hand on his chest. There it is, beating away.

His heart.

"Kiss me goodbye," she whispers.

"I can't," he says.

"Why not?"

"'cause I'll beg you to stay."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You can't stay."

"Why not?"

"You don't belong with me."

"Why not?"

"You belong with someone else. A good man."

"No…"

"You belong with William."

"Billy."

"Billy."

"I chose you."

"That's the wrong choice."

"Albert…"

"You deserve a good man, Miss Chambers."

"Don't call me…"

"Rebecca."

"I want to be with you."

"You can't, Rebecca. You j… simply… can't."

She reaches for him, puts her arms around him. He holds her back. She doesn't press on. He's defeated her.

"Kiss me goodbye," she whispers. "Please."

He pulls away from her a little, bends down, and kisses her forehead. His lips linger there for a moment.

He mouths something he can't let her hear.

Then he pulls away.

She nods, rears her head, and spits in his face.

Then she turns around and leaves.

Five hours after dropping her off, Albert Wesker is sitting in his private plane. His staff is dedicated to providing for his every need. There are many places he can go now, still, and many routes he can take to get there. It's a fresh start, a clean break, to get back on track, to succeed in his plans, to finally finish what he started all those years ago.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a single, thin document.

He looks at it, reads it over.

She was right.

He owes her.

Big.

He picks up the phone, calls the pilot.

"Turn the plane around," he orders. "We're going back."

 **Fifty-Two**

It's too quiet.

Billy is glaring at him. He's poised above Rebecca, muscles tense, ready to pounce. One hand is extended towards the night stand, where the only gun he has on him is loaded and ready. His gaze is sharp, narrow. He remembers the last run-in, and starts to grind his teeth.

Rebecca's hands are on Billy's arms. She's gripping him tightly and looking at the doorway. It's so quiet she can hear Billy's steady breathing. She doesn't move, doesn't say anything. She's not even shaking. There's no point. There's nowhere to run.

"You followed me," she says.

"Yes."

"You fucking..." Billy begins. Wesker takes a step forward. Rebecca holds him.

"Don't, Billy."

"I thought you'd come back here," Wesker says, cold, striding towards them. Billy puts his hand on the barrel of the gun, tries to fling it into the palm of his hand. Wesker melts away, blurs before Billy's startled eyes. The gun is tossed across the room as Billy gasps for breath. One punch was all it took to swing him to the floor. He lands on his back. Wesker's gloved hand seizes him by the throat, pins him there. "Nice try," he sneers.

"Get off him," Rebecca says. She doesn't yell. She doesn't move. Billy's hands wrap around Wesker's wrist. He tries to pry him off but can't; Wesker's grip is stronger than a steel vice. His skin is cold, even in the heat of the moment.

"You son of a bitch!" Billy spits.

"Get off him, now."

Billy starts to struggle. His legs bend. He puts a foot on Wesker's chest and tries to shove him away. Wesker barely budges. Billy takes a swing at his face, smashes his knuckles into Wesker's cheek. Wesker doesn't flinch. Instead, his fingers close just a little bit more. It's enough to send Billy into a coughing fit.

"You fucker!" he croaks.

"Let go of him." She doesn't yell. She doesn't scream.

He takes his glasses off and glares at Billy. Billy looks up at him, at the red and yellow, and his stomach lurches. He's never seen such hideous eyes before. He's seen creatures, of course, and will never be able to get their twisted forms out of his mind. But he's never seen something so frightening on an otherwise normal, human face. It's chilling.

"Leave her alone!" Billy says, still struggling, still trying to kick his attacker off. He reaches up and tries to dig his fingers into Wesker's penetrating glare. Wesker releases his neck and punches him in the stomach again. Billy deflates like a balloon. He curls into a ball and rolls over, fighting for breath. Wesker stands and starts to walk over to Rebecca. Undaunted, Billy grabs his ankle. Wesker turns around and kicks him in the chest, sends him rolling to the other side of the room. The hotel wall stops him from going any further. Wesker lunges, cornering him.

"I told you I'd kill you if I found you with her," he growls.

"Try it, you son of a bitch!" Billy says.

"Albert," Rebecca says. Billy looks up. Rebecca's fingers curl over Wesker's shoulder. "Don't do this. Please."

"I'm sorry, Miss Chambers," he says, his voice still cold.

"Don't call me that."

"I warned your lover what would happen." He says lover as if it's a filthy word.

"You don't have to do this."

"Oh yes I do."

"Am I next?"

"You're next."

"You fucking scumbag!" Billy says. He reaches out, wraps his hands around Wesker's neck, starts to squeeze. There's no effect.

"Do I get a last request?" she asks.

"Don't be dramatic."

"I should get a last request, if this is the end."

"You're a stupid little girl."

"Albert."

"What?" he snaps, turning his head.

She looks at him. Her face is calm, almost serene. "Kill me first."

He glares at her. She stands still and watches him. She doesn't try to make a run for it. She doesn't beg. Billy resumes his struggling. Wesker slams him, once, into the wall, hard enough to immobilize him, but not hard enough to kill him. Billy goes limp. All he can do is lay there and watch as Wesker gets to his feet.

"Do you think I'll take pity on you?" he asks.

"Kill me first."

"Do you think I'll go soft and let you get away with it?"

"Kill me first."

"I'm warning you," he says, holding up a finger. "You're going to suffer."

"Do it."

"The last thing he'll remember is you screaming for your life."

"Do it, Albert."

He keeps walking.

"You fucking whore," he says.

"Do it."

"You betrayed me."

"Yes."

"You fucking little bitch."

"Do it, Albert."

"Shut up!" he yells.

"I love you, you know."

"You're a fucking liar!"

"I do. I still do."

"Becca..." Billy whispers. He drags himself up to his knees.

"Just know that," she says.

He raises his fist, and steps within ten feet of her.

His heart starts to beat.

He stops and stares at her. She's holding the gun.

"You little..." he says, but doesn't finish.

She doesn't falter. She raises Billy's pistol to her temple.

"You touch him again," she says calmly, evenly, "and I'll kill myself. And you'll never feel this way again. No matter who you cross paths with, no matter who you meet, you'll never feel this way again. You'll never have another chance. Not for a million years, if you live that long, if the world keeps turning for that long. You'll be alone, forever. And all your power will mean nothing, to you or anyone else." Her eyes are watering, the green diluted with dusty tears. "I'm all you have, Albert. I'm all you're ever gonna have in this entire world, for the rest of existence. You touch him one more time, and I'll blow it all away." Her finger is on the trigger.

He lowers his hand, holds it out to her.

"Don't," he says, almost whispers. "Please."

"You're not gonna hurt him," she says.

"Give me the gun."

"You're not gonna touch him again."

"Give me the gun, Rebecca."

"Billy," she says. He gets to his feet, slumps against the wall.

"Give him the gun, Angel."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

"Give me the gun," Wesker says.

"Come over here Billy," she says. She points to the bed with her free hand. "Sit down."

"Rebecca," Wesker says. "Give it to me."

Billy stumbles over to the bed and sits down. Rebecca doesn't take her eyes off of Wesker.

"We have to settle this now," she says. "Before we go back."

"Yes," he agrees. "Give me the gun."

"If I give you the gun," she says, "and you hurt him, I'll still find a way."

"I won't. You have my word."

"Yeah? What's your word worth?"

"All that I have."

"You don't have anything left."

"Dear heart," he says, "please."

She holds it just a moment longer. Then, slowly, she lowers her hand and gives him the gun.

He takes it quickly and disengages the clip of bullets. He flings it and the bullets fly out over the carpet. He looks at where they lay, like a constellation on the floor. He turns back to her. She walks over to the bed and sits down, her back against the headboard. He stays where he is. "Do you have any money on you?" she asks him.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Enough. Why?"

"We're going to drink everything in that bar fridge," she says, pointing to where it is, across the room, next to the coffee table. "Every drop."

"I don't drink," he says.

"What're you, Amish?" Billy quips.

"He can't digest it," she says, ignoring him.

"Drink as much as you want," Wesker says.

She looks at Billy.

"Do you want a drink?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says. "Whatever it is, make it a triple."

Time passes slowly. No one says anything. At two in the morning, Wesker is sitting in a chair across the room, watching Billy and Rebecca. They're on their fourth double of Kentucky bourbon. Rebecca looks at the bottle and chuckles. She didn't think they'd have Kentucky bourbon in a bar fridge in Berlin. Then again, she didn't think they'd have full sized bottles either. The Germans at this particular hotel know how to party.

When the last swig is taken, Rebecca looks at Wesker.

"Alright," she says, slurring a little.

"What?" he asks quietly.

"We have to figure this out."

"I've been waiting for you to offer your suggestions," he says. "But you've been rather preoccupied."

"Don't you have any suggestions?"

"I've offered mine," he says. "You'll have none of it."

"Right," she says. She looks at Billy. He's holding up, but it's clear he's drunk. "What about you?"

"What about me?" he asks, sullen.

"What are we gonna do?"

"You tell me," he says. He's hurt. She can tell.

"It's up to me?" she asks.

"It would seem that way," Wesker says. One of his legs is crossed over the other. His fingers are woven beneath his chin. He stays still and watches her.

"If it was up to me," she says. She puts her hand on Billy's shoulder and looks at Wesker. "I'd have the both of you."

"One big happy family?" he says, with bite.

"That's not gonna happen," Billy says.

"Why not?" she asks.

"No fucking way, Rebecca," he says, turning, looking at her. "I'm not sharing you. You're not some toy."

"He's right," Wesker says. "And you're a fool to suggest it."

"You belong with me," Billy says to her. "Not some monster. That's the way it's supposed to be. That's it."

"'Monster', how dramatic," Wesker says.

"Shut up."

"He's not a monster," Rebecca says.

"Whatever he is," Billy says. "Whatever, I don't care what he is. You think you can build some kind of life with him?"

"I'd rather not discuss our pros and cons," Wesker says. "Discussion is pretty futile at this point. I'm sure you agree."

"It's supposed to me you and me," he says to Rebecca. "You and me. Am I gonna have to point out I saw you first? Is that what I have to do now, like a little kid?" Rebecca squeezes his shoulder. She keeps looking at Wesker. Billy leans over and puts his hand on her cheek, turns her face to his. "I saw you first," he says, drunk, his eyes wide and glazed but still earnest. "I had you first. Remember? Your first time was with me. I belong to you."

"I'd no idea you were so sentimental, Coen," Wesker says as Rebecca looks at Billy. He's getting angry.

And more.

"Fuck you!" Billy snaps at him. He looks at Rebecca. "You didn't tell him, did you?" he whispers, vulnerable.

"She told me."

"I told him," she admits.

Billy shakes his head.

"How could you tell him that?"

"I wanted to," she says.

"She told me everything."

"Jeez, Rebecca."

"What?" she asks, anger in her voice. "What's wrong with that?"

"That was between you and me!" he says. "That's us! It's private, you don't go telling some jerk!"

"Oh, fuck you!" she says. "Fuck you! How was I supposed to know you were coming back?"

"Here we go!" Billy says, raising his hands, rising from the bed. He stalks over to a corner. "Here we go! Here comes the fight! Every time I see you we have to fight! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I told you what I thought," she says. "Okay? I told you how it looked."

"And I told you what was up, and I'm so fucking sick of explaining myself."

"I love how I'm the one who has to be tossed around!" she says, incredulous. "I love how I just have to trust the both of you, how you two get to make all the decisions and I just have to go along with it whether I like it or not! And then if I'm not happy..."

"Since when have I made any decisions for the both of us?" Billy asks.

"... and then if I'm not happy," she continues, "and I complain about it, you two fucking guilt trip me or do whatever to get me to feel bad about letting you know!"

"I don't get to make decisions for the both of us, Angel," he says, livid.

"You decided to leave instead of sticking it out."

"God, you love digging that knife in as far as it'll go, don't you?"

"And you," she says, looking at Wesker. "You decided to take me to fucking Japan and then here, I had no say in it."

"True," Wesker replies. He doesn't argue.

"True, yeah, that's true," she nods. "Well you know what? Both of you. It's my turn." She leans back against the headboard. "I get to be a little selfish now. I get to say what I want."

"So that's what you want?" Billy asks. "You want both of us?"

"Yes," she says.

"Forget it!"

She looks at Wesker.

"At the same time," Wesker says.

She nods. He knows exactly what she means. He nods too.

"Forget it," he says.

She shakes her head.

"Not this time," she says. She looks at Billy. "Get over here."

"No."

"Billy."

"No fucking way." He turns away from her, crosses his arms.

"Billy," she says. Her voice is soft, sweet. He hesitates before he looks at her. Her eyes are open, pleading. He doesn't move.

She slides her legs over the side of the bed, stands, and saunters over to him. He nudges her away when she puts her hands on his cheeks.

"No way," he says.

"Baby..."

"Not with him here."

"Billy."

"I'm not doing this."

"Come here."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"Not drunk enough."

"There's plenty left."

"No," he says. She puts her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Wesker shifts in his seat.

"Billy..." Rebecca murmurs.

"No..."

"Remember my first time?"

"Not with him here."

"Remember?" She kisses him again. He turns his face. "On my little bed?"

"I'm not doing this."

"Remember how you took me?"

Their heads are swimming with alcohol. Their limbs are light, rubbery. Billy's knees get weak. He tries to lean back against the wall, but Rebecca has his hands. She guides him over to the bed, and he's too exhausted to resist.

In a haze, she pulls him on top of her, starts to kiss him. He grunts, tries to wriggle away from her. The more he moves, the more he feels her under him. He starts to harden. "No..."

"You made me feel so good," she says, slipping her lips over his. "I loved it."

"Becca, no..."

"Make me feel that way again," she says. "Like it's the first time."

"I can't."

"Billy," she whispers.

"Softly," Wesker says.

She turns her head, looks at him. He's taking off his gloves. "Kiss him softly," he says. "Like you mean it."

Rebecca looks up at Billy. Billy is glaring at Wesker. She kisses his neck, her lips full and pillowy. "Put your hands through his hair," Wesker says, ignoring Billy's look. Her fingers lace through his thick, black locks. "Spread your legs and hold him against you." She follows his orders.

He unbuttons his jacket.

"You can't make me do this," Billy whispers to her.

"Do it for me, baby," she says. "Make love to me like you did that night."

"You can't make me do this."

"Make love to me like you did in the motel," she says. "Remember? The day I passed my exam?"

"Rebecca..."

"Keep going," Wesker says. His jacket is open. He reaches for his collar. "Keep talking."

"You went down on me for hours," she says.

"Tell him you want him."

"I want you again. Like that night."

"Rebecca," Billy says, closing his eyes. He puts a hand on her breast, starts to knead the firm flesh.

"In the motel. You gave me the best... hummer..." She chuckles at the word. "Do you remember?"

"He went down on you?" Wesker asks, though he knows the answer.

"Yeah."

"Murmured inside you?"

"Yeah."

"You felt his lips say your name."

"He called me doctor," she said. "Didn't you, baby?"

"I called you Doctor Chambers..." Billy says.

"After that big fight?"

"Yes."

"When our hearts were still pounding..."

"You fight with him because it feels good," Wesker says. He slides his jacket off, starts to unbutton his shirt. "Don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Feels good to yell at him."

"I yelled at you too," Billy says. He pushes her shirt up and over her head. "Remember?"

"Yeah," she says. "You did."

Billy's mouth opens, his tongue finds hers, strokes hers. He breathes in slowly, steady, his eyes are closed. He lets out a long, soft sigh. One of his hands cups her face, the other pays delicate attention to her breast. She slides her hands under the back of his shirt, runs her fingernails down his back. He shivers, grins a little. He opens his eyes.

Wesker sits down on the bed, reaches out, and brushes Rebecca's hair back.

Billy glares at him.

Tonight there's no other way. Tonight it's everything or nothing, and everything may be painful, may be crazy, may be difficult, but it's better than the void that will be left behind if she goes. They're bound to each other, like it or not, through circumstance, through things that have been set in motion that can't be undone. Rebecca is leaving tomorrow. Wesker is taking her home. Billy will follow her. All of that is true, and written in stone. There's no changing it because there's no point. It's not a battle worth fighting. What is worth fighting for, though, is this one last night in Berlin, in a hotel room, with the three of them. It's important, because they're drunk or hurt or helpless, all of them, in one way or another. In a weird way, somehow woven through the thin air, they owe it to each other.

They don't have to enjoy it, though.

Billy tries to get up, away from Wesker, whose shirt is off, whose belt is loose. Rebecca holds on to him and brings him back. "Stay with me," she says. "Billy, stay with me." Billy looks away, tries to occupy his glance with something else, the lamp on the night table perhaps. Rebecca kisses his chin. Billy takes his hand off her breast.

Wesker takes Billy's hand and puts it back.

"Touch her," he says.

"Get away from me," Billy growls.

"She wants you to."

"I want you to," she says.

"I can't do this," Billy says, shaking his head, trying to sit up. "I can't."

"Have another drink, Coen."

"Billy..."

Wesker reaches for the bourbon again, starts to pour it into one of the two glasses on the night table. Billy grabs it from him and downs the rest, straight from the bottle. He looks at Wesker.

"You're so fucking powerful, why don't you stop this?" he asks.

Wesker looks at Rebecca.

"I have no other choice," he says.

Rebecca looks at Wesker, sits up, holds Billy as close as she can.

"Don't be mad," she says.

Billy glares at Wesker a moment longer before wrapping his arms around Rebecca and burying his face against her neck. Wesker leans forward, gets behind Rebecca, his legs on either side of her. She leans back against his chest, kissing Billy. Billy props himself up with his hands, one on each side of Wesker's slender hips. He closes his eyes, to forget where he is, and who he's with.

Drunk, their heads spinning, Billy and Rebecca kiss each other deeply. Rebecca's hands are in Billy's thick black hair, her palms cup his ears. He tries not to think about what's going on. He doesn't want to think he's being manipulated, and by Rebecca, of all people in the world. She'd never do anything to hurt him deliberately, he knows that. He doesn't understand why she wants this to happen. He doesn't understand why he doesn't just get up and leave, why she's so important to him. Then he remembers.

Of all the people in the world, Rebecca believes he's innocent. She has, since that moment a decade ago, when he saw that horrible, stinking pile of remains. She saw his face and knew, deep down, that he was innocent. And she's the only one on earth who thinks so.

It seems he, too, has no other choice.

Rebecca gives Billy one long, final kiss, then tilts her head back. It rests on Wesker's naked shoulder. He turns his face to her, and as her fingers continue to massage little circles into Billy's scalp, she kisses him. He opens his mouth, deepens his kiss, lays his hand on her cheek. She moans, and he feels it in his throat. "Dear heart..." he breathes against her lips.

"Albert..."

Billy looks up at her. He reaches behind her, finds the clasp of her bra. He unhooks it and slides the garment down her arms, discards it on the floor. Wesker's hands reach around her, cup both her naked breasts. He nudges them together, gently, and offers them to Billy. Rebecca's arms raise up. She locks her hands around Wesker's neck. She's open and willing, like a work of art.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" he asks Billy. Billy nods, but doesn't say anything. "What are you waiting for?"

"Want me to kiss them, Angel?" Billy asks. Rebecca nods and licks Wesker's neck. Billy's lips open. He runs his tongue over one pert nipple, rolls it over and over again.

"She likes to have them nibbled," Wesker says. "Gently."

"I know..." Billy whispers.

"Look at her... it drives her crazy..." Billy looks up. A wide, intoxicated smile has formed on Rebecca's lips. Wesker is watching her. Billy gets harder. He keeps his eyes open while he fondles Rebecca's breasts. Rebecca moans again. "The first time I fucked her," Wesker says, nostalgic, "when I saw her breasts... I can't get over how perfect they are..."

"Me neither..." Billy says.

"Have you ever come on her breasts?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"So have I. You begged me to come on them, didn't you, dear heart?" He squeezes her breasts just a little bit, speaks in a harsh whisper against her temple. "Didn't you?"

"I begged you," she says.

"Yes, you did..."

"I wanted you to..."

"And I came all over them, didn't I?"

"Yeah..."

"All over them... you begged me to do it..."

"Yeah..."

He smiles.

"And I love it when you beg."

She opens her eyes, looks at him. Billy raises his gaze at her. She looks at him, then looks at Wesker.

"Please..." she says.

Wesker looks at Billy. He knows what she wants. Billy looks at Rebecca. She looks back at him.

Wesker leans forward, leans towards Billy, still clutching Rebecca. Billy looks away, briefly, then glances back. Rebecca's eyes widen. She gets wetter.

"Yes... that's hot..." she says.

Billy leans towards Wesker. Their lips fit together, gently. They kiss.

Just once.

Then Billy shoves him away.

Billy pulls his shirt off roughly, then leans forward, on his elbows. He reaches up beneath Rebecca's skirt and grabs hold of her panties, tugs them down and off. He leaves her skirt on, eases her legs apart. Wesker holds Rebecca's breasts, starts to thumb her nipples. "That's right, Coen," he says, his voice raspy. "Lick her."

"You want me to, Angel?" he asks.

"I want you to," she replies, breathless.

"Start slowly," Wesker says.

"Yeah."

"No matter what she says, don't stop."

"You won't want me to stop, will you Becca?"

"No..." she sighs. "... don't stop..."

"Put your tongue inside her when she starts to struggle..." Wesker says, pinching her nipples between his fingers, kissing the side of her head. "... not until then..."

"You'll tell him how I like it..." she says.

"I'll make sure he makes you come..."

"I'll make you come, Angel..."

Billy leans forward, lifts up Rebecca's skirt. He opens his mouth, and his tongue finds her clit hot and swollen. He runs his tongue along it, around it, teasing her. Rebecca's hips tilt back and forth. She moans, and Wesker smiles at her. "Do you like what he's doing?"

"Yes..."

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes..."

"I can't wait to hear you beg for more..."

"Yes..."

"... just like you beg me..."

"Yeah..."

He releases her breasts, slides his hands under her thighs, lifts her legs. Rebecca slides forward, and Billy can continue to lick her, uninhibited. Wesker keeps her legs apart, looks down at where Billy's lips, his mouth, open and close between her sweet skin. "Harder," he says. "Make her feel it." Billy licks her harder. She feels his breath, cool on wet, and moans. Her hips buck, and she grunts. "Do you want his tongue inside you now?" Wesker asks.

"Yes..."

"You want his tongue and his fingers inside you?"

"Yes..."

"You want to come?"

"Yes..."

"I say when you come..." he tells her.

"Please..."

"Again."

"Please, Albert..."

"Please what?"

"Let me come..."

"Do you hear her, William?"

"I hear her."

"Put your tongue inside her now."

He does. She arches her back and grunts again. Wesker holds her legs back further. Billy thrusts his tongue inside her, over and over. Rebecca grabs the back of Wesker's neck and pulls him forward, meets his lips with hers. She moans. "Does it feel good, dear heart?" he asks.

"Yes..."

"You're getting what you want?"

"Yes..."

"Two men..."

"Yeah..." she giggles, then gasps as Billy keeps it up. Her fingers dig into Wesker's skin.

"... making you happy..."

"Yeah..."

"... making you come..."

"Yes..."

He looks at her, at her face awash with lust, and smiles. He puts one arm behind both her knees, brings them together, keeps them up. He licks his fingers, reaches down, and starts to rub her clit. She gasps and cries out, feels his fingers and Billy's mouth. He looks down and watches as Billy shoves his pants off, shoves his shorts off, keeps his tongue moving steady. Billy runs his hands over the backs of Rebecca's thighs, sees Wesker's fingers moving deftly, swirling around her, determined. Billy backs off, gets on his knees in front of her, hard, and pushes against her, drives his cock inside her.

Rebecca groans mercifully.

Wesker nudges her forward. She collapses on top of Billy and starts to rut. Billy bends his legs and closes his eyes as Wesker unbuttons his pants and slides them off. Rebecca reaches down, puts her hands on Billy's cheeks, kisses him. "Baby..." she murmurs.

"Angel..."

"Baby..."

"Dear heart..."

"Albert..."

Billy opens his eyes. He watches Wesker's fingers grip Rebecca's shoulders. He slides his legs down again. Wesker loops his arm around Rebecca's waist. He urges her forward.

"Kiss him, dear heart..."

"Albert..." she says, reaching one hand back, finding his hip, squeezing him.

"Kiss him like you kiss me..."

Billy's head starts to spin even more. He loses his sense of direction. Rebecca kisses him and moans softly, again and again, deeper and deeper. Billy watches as Wesker's knees straddle his legs, watches as Wesker's hands smooth over Rebecca's skin, watches as he opens his mouth and licks her shoulders, bites her neck.

Wesker tilts forward, and Rebecca starts to giggle.

"Fuck..." she grunts.

"... dear heart..."

Billy kisses her, feels her delight.

"Oh god..." she says, giggling almost uncontrollably. Her face is different now. Pleasure and pain.

"... relax..."

"... ow..."

"... dear heart..."

"Don't hurt her..." Billy says.

"I won't hurt you..."

"Tell her she's your angel."

"... Angel..."

"She likes it."

Billy grunts as Rebecca tightens around him.

"... Angel..." Wesker murmurs.

"Oh god..."

Rebecca stops moving. Her head is swimming. She closes her eyes, opens her mouth. Billy puts his finger on her lips. She catches it in her mouth and gives it a long, slow suck. Billy puts his hands in her hair. Rebecca turns her head. Wesker lays his cheek against hers. Billy watches Wesker's shoulders rise and fall, watches his face twist up with every thrust. Billy rocks up inside her as gently as he can, and Wesker matches his pace. Rebecca's face turns red.

"Oh god Billy..."

"... dear heart..."

"... Albert..."

"... Angel..."

"Oh god..."

"Look at me, Angel..." Billy whispers.

Wesker's arm tightens around Rebecca's waist. Rebecca reaches back, puts her hand on his head. She opens her eyes and looks at Billy as Wesker kisses her cheek. "I love you," Billy murmurs.

"Billy..."

"I love you Rebecca..."

Rebecca closes her eyes. Wesker opens his. He glares at Billy. Rebecca shakes her head.

"Billy..."

"I love you Angel, I do..."

"Billy, please..."

"It's okay, dear heart..." Wesker whispers. "... it's okay..."

"Albert..."

"... tell him you love him..."

"... Captain..."

"... if it makes you happy..."

"... Captain..."

"Angel..." Billy says, more earnest than before.

"... go on, dear heart..."

"... Billy..."

"...mein engel..." Albert says.

"... Billy..."

"... mein liebling..."

"I love you, Angel..."

"Ich liebe dich, engel..."

Rebecca's eyes widen. She tries to look back at Albert, but she can't see him. He's whispering into her hair. Billy thrusts harder, and so does Albert.

"Albert... Captain..."

"I love you baby..." Billy says.

"... mein nur..." Albert whispers. "... mein nur... wie du mich verraten könntest..."

"I love you, Billy..."

"... wenn du ich liebe dich weißt..."

"I love you, Albert..."

"Angel..."

"... ich würde nie dies dich antun..."

They close their eyes. All of them.

"No talking now..." Rebecca murmurs. "... no talking now..."

And they rut, thrust, rock, forward, back, in, out. The room fills with grunts, moans, slaps, sighs. Bitten flesh, slippery skin. Need. Heartbeat. Truth. Take. Game. Cold. Kiss. Remorse. Tonight. Villain. Tonight. Everything. Translation. Tonight.

Tonight.

"The first thing I noticed about her," Wesker says to Billy, at four in the morning, "were her eyes. She has the most beautiful eyes." He looks at Billy. "Doesn't she?" Billy nods. Wesker nods too. "So innocent. I've a thing for innocent girls. As I'm sure you've guessed by now."

"What happens to her now?" Billy asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You're not gonna hurt her, are you?"

"No," Albert says. "I'm not gonna hurt her. I'll never hurt her. I promised."

Billy snorts. He finishes off the bourbon and looks at him.

"If I find out you've done something to her..."

"She took a picture of me, her first week at the RPD," Wesker says, ignoring him. "I wonder if she still has it. I doubt it." He looks down at Rebecca. She's fast asleep, cradled in between the both of them.

"We have to settle this."

"You're in no condition to settle anything, William. You're drunk out of your mind."

"She has to make a choice."

"She'll make it."

"Wesker." Albert looks at him, red and yellow eyes blazing. Billy doesn't flinch. "I'm going back to the States. I'm gonna find you. And I'm gonna get you back for what you've done to her. So help me."

"Agreed," Wesker says. "Now get dressed and get out." He smirks. "You'll need a head start, after all."

Billy glares at him a moment longer before he slips off the bed. He reaches for his clothes, puts them on. They're wrinkled, dishevelled. He reaches for his rucksack, slings it over his shoulder. "And William," Wesker says, as loudly as he can without waking Rebecca. Billy looks at him. "I suggest you do some checking up on the man you take orders from. I don't think I need to stress that he's not exactly what he seems. It's also best if you don't tell him about tonight. For more reasons than one."

Billy nods.

"Remember what I said," he warns.

"How can I forget?" Albert smirks.

Billy leans down, kisses Rebecca on the cheek, then turns around and leaves.

Wesker stares at the empty glasses on the night table until morning.

 **Fifty-Three**

Leon takes a can of soda out of the shelter's refrigerator. The power went out last night for a spell, but nothing seems to be spoiled. He takes a good look at the stuff they have left. It's a collection of frozen dinners and heavily preserved drinks in colourfully marketed containers. The mascots of each product leer at him, their smiles permanently etched on their hyper-kindly faces. They're supposed to entice people to pick up and consume. Leon takes a look at them and scowls. He makes a mental note; anything packaged in fluorescent cardboard boxes isn't food, no matter what anyone says.

Everyone's out. Claire and Jill took Rebecca out for a drive, just the three of them. They think it will be good for her, a long drive in the afternoon sun. HUNK and Ashley are who-knows-where, but no doubt they're tooling around on HUNK's motorcycle. Cumberland is at the facility, setting up the machine.

Leon doesn't know where Chris is.

He also doesn't know if it's still sunny outside. The shelter is below ground and doesn't have windows. The radio signals this far below the earth are weak, but he managed to hear the weather report before they left. Sunny and warm. Leon opens the soda and takes a swig. He's starting to feel like a vampire, cooped up in a giant underground coffin with recycled air. He misses being on the lam with Claire. He wants to go back to the orchard and sit under the cherry trees again. He wants to check out Claire's ass as she pumps gas into the tank.

It's funny. He still blushes when he thinks of her like that. It's not that he's embarrassed. He just won't give himself the permission to think lascivious thoughts about her, unless she's there with him. Unless they're making love. Or unless he's in the shower. He smiles. Knowing what he knows of her, she'd probably be flattered by his casual fantasizing. Her sense of humour is what finally gets him to let go and indulge. He thinks of her laughing as he tells her about his thing with cheerleaders.

Claire'd make an awesome cheerleader.

His smile fades away slowly.

He has to tell Ada. It's not fair to her. When he's feeling moody - which is often, but less so now that Claire's around - he justifies what he's done in his mind. He thinks about all the times Ada broke his heart, or lied to him, or misrepresented what she actually wanted and used him to achieve a goal. It lets him hold Claire as tightly as he wants, remembering those betrayals. But then he thinks about that night on the dock, when it seemed as though Ada had finally had enough of being a triple agent. She cried in his arms, and he thought he finally got through to her. Then she did what she always did. She said goodbye and disappeared.

She has to know. He can't take it anymore.

The night he and Claire finally fell into each other's embrace, he asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. She said teacher. Leon nodded and kissed the top of her head. She asked him the same thing, and he said fireman. It felt great, letting her in on that. He slipped his arm around her waist and they fell asleep and he finally admitted something. He wants to get married. He wants children. He wants a house with a white picket fence and football on Sundays and home cooked meals. Domestic bliss, right out of Home and Gardens. He can have that with Claire.

He could never have that with Ada. Ever.

Leon hears someone open the door to the shelter. He thinks it might be Jill and Claire with Rebecca. There's a distinct lack of female voices, however. He stops and strains to hear. Someone walks through the shelter and opens one of the doors, then the next, then the next. Checking the bedrooms. When the final one is opened, Leon hears the steady march of combat boots. He rolls his eyes and puts down his can of soda.

It's Chris.

And he's mad.

Chris bursts through the kitchen door and, without a word, lunges at Leon. Leon dives out of the way and turns his head. Chris slams his fist into Leon's stomach and pushes him backwards. Leon knocks the table over before hitting the wall. Chris pounces on him and starts belting him with all he has. The tough skin of his knuckles splits, but he doesn't stop. Leon curls his legs up, puts his boots on Chris' chest and violently heaves him off, then jumps up and grabs Chris' collar, punches him in the face. Chris punches him back, succeeds in throwing him off. They get to their feet and Chris spits out a mouthful of blood. He rears back and kicks Leon's chin so hard Leon can hear his teeth knock together. He narrowly misses biting his own tongue. He ducks as Chris tries another swing to the face, punches Chris in the gut and hurls him onto the linoleum floor. He throws himself on top of Chris, and the two of them lock arms, lock fists, lock knees. Chris tries to bash Leon's head into the wall, and Leon tries to do the same, but to no avail. They struggle on the floor, kicking, punching, swearing. They both consider fighting dirty; a couple of punches to the nuts and the other guy would go down like a ton of bricks. Neither of them wants to fight dirty, though. If they're going to finish it, they're going to finish it like men. No biting, no gouging eyes, and no Roshambo.

It seems like forever that the two of them remain stuck together, each trying to pound the other into submission. Finally, they both realize no one's going to win the fight. Chris is slightly shorter but he's tough as nails, and punching him is like punching a brick wall. Leon doesn't have the density of muscle, but he's faster and more flexible. There's no way either of them is going to emerge triumphant. Chris headbutts Leon as Leon gives him one final belt to the gut. Then Chris suddenly shoves Leon away and gets to his feet. Panting, he slowly saunters over to the fridge and opens it. Leon sits up and leans back against the wall to catch his breath. Chris' head disappears behind the refrigerator door. When he straightens up again he's holding two bottles of beer. He kicks the door closed, walks over to Leon, and holds one of the bottles out to him. Leon looks up at him, nods, and takes the beer. Chris slides down the wall and sits next to him. They take a couple of swigs.

For a while neither of them says anything. They're too busy trying to calm down. Their shoulders and chests heave, thankful for the chance to get air back into their lungs. Chris reaches into his back pocket and takes out a pack of cigarettes. He puts one in his mouth. Leon watches him, amused. Chris catches him grinning and rolls his eyes. "Don't tell Jill," he says.

"Don't tell Claire," Leon replies.

Chris nods and holds the pack out to him. Leon takes a cigarette and lets Chris light it for him. Chris lights his own smoke, and each takes a drag. They exhale. Chris holds his hand out in front of him, the cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"She's all I've got," he says.

Leon nods.

"Me too."

They sit together, in silence.

The door to the shelter opens. They hear Jill and Claire talking. They hear Rebecca say thanks. She goes into her room and shuts the door. Jill and Claire walk into the kitchen. The first thing they see is the overturned table and scattered chairs. Their eyes come to rest on Chris and Leon leaning against the wall, half downed bottles of beer and cigarettes. The guys grin, bruised and battered, thick as thieves. Chris drapes his arm around Leon's shoulders, gives him a squeeze as if they've been buddies for years. Jill glares at Chris. "You're an idiot!" she says. She turns around and leaves the kitchen, makes her way to Chris' room. Chris stands up and winks at Leon.

"She so wants me," he says. He strolls out of the room to find Jill.

Claire stands in front of Leon. Her face is gentle, despite Leon's rapidly blackening eyes.

"You smoke?" she asks.

Leon stubs the cigarette out on the floor.

"No."

 **Fifty-Four**

Billy was told to stay where he was. Someone was coming to pick him up.

Back in the States, at an abandoned airport, Billy leans against what's left of the hangar. The night air is cold and snaps cruelly at his cheeks. His hands, weak and useless, are thrust into his pockets. The moon is full. He looks at with odd affection, as if he's never seen it before but, somehow, knows their fates are looped together. His beard is coming in. A couple of hairs are white. He hasn't noticed them yet. He's not one to look in mirrors on a regular basis, to see where his looks still stand. He has better things to do.

He can't stop thinking about the night before. His head still hurts from all the alcohol, the acid in his stomach churns against his sides, a sour, bubbling lava. He had a greasy breakfast on the plane and nothing else since. He doesn't have much of an appetite. He's torturing himself, the way he always does when he leaves Rebecca's side. He runs through everything again and again, tries to remember every moment they spent together, every whisper and touch. It was always his habit, to freeze her in his memory, to make her last. Now, however, his thoughts of Rebecca include someone else.

In a million years, Billy never thought he'd ever experience something like that. Especially with Rebecca. The Rebecca he knew was sweet, soft, plucky but never demanding. He always thought of her as the same girl he took that night in the dormitory, no matter what had passed between them. He should have known that each time he saw her she was getting older, wiser, more able to ask for the things she wanted. He figured she'd stay the young virgin he first made love to.

But he's remained relatively the same. That's why it's so difficult.

He hears someone walking towards him and steps away from the side of the wall. The moon is bright enough to light up the field. When the person steps into the clearing, however, his face is still wrapped in shadow. "Mr. Coen."

Billy nods. "You're alone," the voice says, more fact than accusation.

"I couldn't convince her to come with me," Billy says.

"That's unfortunate. Wesker's hold on her is stronger than I thought."

Billy watches him. He stops a good distance away.

"I don't think Wesker has the kind of control over her that you think he does," Billy tells him.

"Is that so?"

Billy's gaze narrows.

"Rebecca told me some things..."

"You met with her, then?"

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure you know that."

"What did you discuss?" he asks, ignoring the remark.

"She told me she used to work for you."

"That's true."

"And her friends, the other survivors from Raccoon, from S.T.A.R.S."

"Correct."

Billy takes his hands out of his pocket. If worse comes to worse, he can easily get to the gun in his back pocket.

"She told me you have something planned, and that's why Wesker ran and the rest of the team split up."

"Something planned..."

"Yeah," Billy says.

He hears the footsteps of several people approaching. He doesn't keep up with the questioning.

"Albert Wesker is a terrorist, Mr. Coen. He's a lot cleverer than you might think."

"Rebecca's making it up?"

"I can't say for certain. It depends on what exactly she said to you."

The footsteps get closer. Billy catches a glimpse of shadows beyond the white industrial light hanging on the dilapidated wall. There are seven people. Maybe more.

"I think you played me for a sucker," Billy says.

"What did Miss Chambers say to you?"

The way he says her name sounds oddly familiar. Billy stays quiet. Another group of shadows gathers on his right. He starts to reach back for his gun. "Mr. Coen," the voice continues. "It's imperative that you tell me exactly what Miss Chambers said to you."

Billy looks around. More shadows. He's surrounded.

He has nothing to lose.

"That you're not who you say you are."

"What else?"

"That you're cloning people."

"What else?"

"That you're not interested in bringing Wesker to justice at all. You want to clone him."

Hollum laughs. It's high pitched and tinny, effeminate.

"That's it?" Billy nods. His hand is on the handle of his gun. "It took someone else to point that out to you, did it?"

Billy draws his gun and points it at him. He keeps laughing.

"Is it true?" Billy asks.

The laughing stops.

"These matters shouldn't be discussed in open air," he replies. "Why don't you take a walk with us?"

The shadows step into the light. Twenty or thirty men. They're dressed the same. They have the same red hair, the same sharp glares. They stalk towards him in a steady two-four pace, marching, relentless. They're empty handed. Billy strides forward, towards Hollum, aiming for his head.

"Don't move or I'll shoot him!" he says to the posse. They laugh in a round, like a Greek chorus. They don't stop moving. "Did you hear what I said?"

"They only take orders from me," Hollum says. "I control them."

"Call 'em off."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Call 'em off, Hollum, or I blow your face apart."

Hollum reaches out, lightening fast, stronger than Billy gave him credit for. He grabs the barrel of the gun and wrenches it from Billy's grasp in a blur. Billy punches him, feels the bones in his cheek crack. Hollum laughs again. Billy grabs him by the collar and brings him close.

Finally, he takes a good, long look at him.

He recoils in horror.

"Shit... oh shit..."

"Does it look like I give a damn about my face, Mr. Coen?" Hollum asks.

"Shit!"

The bile rises in Billy's throat. There's no time to vomit. The men almost have him completely surrounded.

"You had better come quietly, Mr. Coen," Hollum says. "I'd hate to see a specimen like you go to waste."

Billy can hardly breathe. He looks at the men closing in on him. There's a shred of space, just past Hollum's shoulder, that he can still slip through.

He closes his eyes and charges past them.

He runs off into the darkness, into the cold, runs faster than he's ever run before.

He has to warn Rebecca.

And Wesker.

 **Fifty-Five**

Ashley has her eye on the women's bathroom.

She's been in there for twenty minutes...

Ashley Graham is sitting in a hole-in-the-wall bar, two hours away from the bunker. She's drinking whiskey. She's not particularly fond of whiskey, but she felt it was appropriate given her surroundings. She's always believed in the old adage "When in Rome". Folsom Prison Blues is playing over the speakers. It was whiskey or nothing. Besides, after dealing with this kid, she could use a stiff drink.

Ashley's not much older, but it seems as though she and the girl are decades apart. The girl is uncouth, mouthy, and has an annoying habit of biting off the ends of her chipped nails. She doesn't ask for things - she barks orders. She's also half deaf. Ashley's had to ask her to do simple things, like buckle her seat belt and stop flicking spit balls out the window, more than once. The girl responded with cut-eye that could start a fight in a place like this. That's partially why Ashley's keeping such a close eye on the bathroom door. She's afraid the kid will open her mouth and say something really, really stupid. By the looks of things, too, this place doesn't take too kindly to foreigners.

Ashley sighs and takes a swig of her drink. It goes down too quickly, and she wishes she had a glass of water to chase away the sting. She tries to remember what she was like a few years ago, when she was the girl's age and just as stupid. Her little failures come back to her, amplified by guilt and shame. No matter what she does, how strenuously she tells herself that she was just a kid, she feels sorry for every tantrum, every stunt she's pulled. She drove her dad crazy ever since he got into politics. It was her way of dealing with the newfound attention, the raised expectations, the legions of false friends. She used to enjoy making him worry.

She stopped all of that, after the kidnapping.

After Spain. Ashley's divided into halves. Before, and after. Spain was her turning point. Everybody has one. The moment in life when things just change, for whatever reason. Sometimes they change drastically, other times not so much. But Ashley's change was big. It came with terror, with nightmares, with longing. She tried to go back to doing the things she always did, believing in the things she felt mattered and always would. It didn't do any good. She was different after Spain, and she always would be. It was awful, but in a weird way, she's grateful for it.

She found out that real heroes exist. And what it takes to become one.

Ashley smiles and finishes off the whiskey, lets it linger on her tongue, then caves and quickly asks the bartender for a glass of water. When she turns her head again, she notices the girl has come out of the bathroom. Ashley watches her saunter up to the juke box the bar keeps in the corner. It plays CDs, of course, but it looks old fashioned and beat up. The girl flips through the catalogue absently, smirking and turning her nose up at all the country tunes. Ashley can tell from what the kid's wearing she's not exactly into this kind of music, this kind of place. It's understandable. They probably don't have bluegrass bars where she's from. Normally she wouldn't pick this kind of place to hang out either. It was HUNK's suggestion.

He likes country music.

They were leaving a greasy spoon the other day when a song came over the transistor radio the manager kept propped in the open window. He stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes and his lips drew a smile. "Man..." he said. "I remember this one..."

"What is it?" she asked him.

"Can't remember what it's called," he said, "but it's familiar. Like a second skin."

"Wow, you're a poet."

He opened his eyes, reached out and tried to pinch her bum before she swatted his hand away.

"Come here and dance with me, Princess," he said.

"No way, crazy!" she said. He pulled her into an embrace and started swaying back and forth with her. "Cut it out!"

He shook his head and hummed along with the tune, rocking her this way and that. She started to laugh. "They're gonna have you arrested."

"I was a kid when this song came out," he said. He stopped, and she looked at him. "Yeah," he said, nodding slowly, his smile wry. "Yeah. I was like... ten... or eleven or something."

"What else?" she asked, anxious to know.

He shook his head.

"Nothing else." Her smile faded. His didn't. He helped her on to the back of his motorbike, still humming the tune long after it fizzled away in the static.

The girl walks over to Ashley and sits down on the bar stool next to her. She's wearing ripped fishnet tights, a short skirt, black t-shirt under a jean jacket covered in permanent marker graffiti and buttons for independent bands. Her blonde hair is spiked up. The tips are spray painted red. Ashley smiles at her in an attempt to be polite. "Do you want a drink?" The girl shakes her head, leans her cheek on her hand and looks at her watch. "We'll get going soon. He's just gone to pick up a few things." The girl nods. The tune switches. A middle aged couple gets up and starts dancing. They're awkward, since they've had a few. The girl rolls her eyes.

"I hate this American crap," she says in her crisp, haughty accent.

Ashley bites her tongue.

She could understand the girl's initial cold reaction. Cumberland told them she'd probably be a handful when he gave them the instructions of where and when to pick her up. He told them not to tell her too much, so that they don't accidentally contradict themselves. HUNK didn't ask any questions at all; he simply nodded and started to get ready. Ashley needed more information. Who was this girl? Where did she come from? And why couldn't she know what was going on? She didn't think he'd answer her questions, but to her surprise, he did, and quite thoroughly. Perhaps a little too thoroughly. Now Ashley knows the shit's going to hit the fan in a few days.

She wants to order another drink. She wants the bad taste in her mouth to match the mood.

"When's your boyfriend coming back?" the girl asks.

Ashley looks at her watch.

"He should be here in a few minutes."

"He doesn't say much."

"He's just shy."

"He's shy?" the girl asks, blue eyes piercing, exasperated.

"Yeah."

"He doesn't seem shy to me."

"Well, you don't know him very well."

"I can tell," she says. She sniffs a couple of times, itches her nose with her finger. "I'm a good judge of character."

"Really?" Ashley asks.

"Yeah."

"So what's his character?"

Ashley's getting annoyed. The girl smirks at her.

"He's a brute. That's why you like him."

"He's not a brute," Ashley replies, glaring at her.

"He's paid to protect you," the girl says. "And you're a pampered President's daughter. You like that kind of thing, don't you?"

Ashley's about to say something when she looks up. He's standing in the doorway. He waves at her to get her stuff and follow him. She looks at the girl.

"He's here, let's go."

"You're pissed off," the girl says. She picks up her ratty knapsack and slings it over her shoulder.

"Whatever," Ashley says. "Let's go."

"It's alright being a pampered President's daughter," the girl says, following behind. "It's not your fault. I only meant that when you live the high life you don't mind getting your hands dirty every once in a while. It's campy."

Ashley stops and turns to her.

"I don't like how you're talking about him, okay? And I want you to stop it."

The girl's small mouth, decorated in bright red gloss, wrinkles into another smirk.

"Yes, Massa."

Ashley glares at her, then storms out of the bar. The girl follows, chuckling.

"I can't stand her and I'm gonna lose it," Ashley hisses to him when she's within his earshot. The girl sniffles and rubs her nose again, then turns her head and starts to fish in her bag for something. HUNK grabs the collar of the girl's jacket.

"C'mere," he says, his voice sharp. Ashley turns around and watches. The smirk on the girl's face is gone, replaced with a much keener look. "You got a problem, little sister?" he asks her.

"No," she says flatly. "No problem. Your girlfriend's a little sensitive tonight, I think."

"She doesn't need some punk kid telling her what's what," he says. "So you best keep your trap shut before I shut it for you."

"Oh, you're going to hit me now, are you?" she asks with an amused chuckle.

He doesn't laugh.

Or smile.

He glares at her.

She keeps giggling. "Why don't you both relax then, eh? You can't have brought me all this way just to beat me up." He keeps his eyes locked on her. "So serious!" she says in the middle of another peal of laughs. Her laughter slowly fades when she realizes he's not letting up.

"You finished?" he asks. She rolls her eyes and nods. "Good. And by the way." He flicks the side of his nose with his thumb. "You missed a spot." He turns his back and strolls over to his motorbike. The girl wipes the sides of her nose with her palm and hustles to catch up with him.

Ashley doesn't know whether to laugh or feel sorry for her.

The girl doesn't know what she's in for.

 **Fifty-Six**

Ada is standing outside of the bunker. She knows it's better this way.

Months of running, of hiding, of constantly looking over her shoulder, have come to this. She's back in the States. Her home state too, funny enough, though no one knows that. She didn't want to come back right away, after Tokyo. She wanted her face to heal before she saw Leon again. Looking at her now, you wouldn't know anything was ever wrong. Her jaw was reset and the bruises have healed. She looks as beautiful as she always does. Maybe even better. It's funny, how pain and longing can write themselves into a person's face. She remembers something someone close to her told her a long time ago. Sometimes, you have to suffer for beauty.

Ada thinks back to that night in Tokyo, when it almost came to an end. There's no doubt about it. She had one chance to escape and she took it, shamelessly. Wesker's got a cruel streak a thousand miles wide. He wanted to see her at her most vulnerable. He knew what it would do to her, to let her live after forcing her to reveal her most private thought, to send her on her way after she surrendered Leon's name. He was almost laughing. The driver took her to the hospital and told the staff she'd been mugged. They didn't believe him and asked her to tell them what really happened. She didn't contradict the story. She's biding her time. One of these days, she thinks, she's going to get Wesker back. For everything.

She hasn't been honest with him. She's played him for a fool. She's pretended to be loyal and stabbed him in the back. She's treated him the way she's treated everyone else in the game. It's the only way she can stay ahead. And she hasn't had a problem with it. She knew her goal and nothing couldn't stop her from reaching it. The only person she feels she's wronged is Leon. The only person she wishes she could tell everything to is Leon. She called him a few days ago, and for the first time in more than a year, he didn't pick up the phone. She left him a message. He only got back to her a couple of hours ago and told her to meet him here. When he hung up the phone, he didn't tell her he loved her.

So this is it, she thinks. This is it.

She's leaning against a tree trunk when he finally emerges from the bunker. She smiles. He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt over a t-shirt, and jeans. She's never seen him so dressed down. She remembers the blue uniform, the black thermal shirt, the holsters and harnesses. He looks younger when he's dressed like a civilian. She brushes her hair out of her eyes. He looks up and sees her, looks away and starts to walk towards her. Ada's heart is beating a mile a minute, but she can't let him know. She unfolds her arms and raises one leg, rests the sole of her boot on the tree behind her. "Hello handsome," she says.

"Ada," he says. He smiles. It's not convincing. He stops in front of her, doesn't make a move. She doesn't move either.

"The gang's all here?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"What about..."

"He's here too," Leon says.

Ada nods.

"I thought so. Debonaire of him."

"I couldn't believe it."

"Neither could I, handsome," she says. "So you know something's up."

"Nothing's up."

"Really?"

"Believe me."

He looks at her. She nods again.

"I believe you mean it."

She steps away from the tree, walks over to him. She puts her arms around his neck, puts her hands on his face, brings him down to her, and kisses him.

And kisses him.

And keeps kissing him.

And realizes he's not kissing her back.

She pulls away, chuckles, puts her cheek against his chest.

"We have to talk," she says.

He puts his arms around her.

"Yeah."

Ada closes her eyes and listens to Leon's heartbeat. It's a steady thump, strong, amplified in his chest. She can hear it so well because neither of them is saying anything. Leon starts to sway back and forth, with Ada in his arms. He leans his chin on her head, puts a hand on her hair and strokes it gently. Ada bites her lip and tries as hard as she can to keep it in. Always, always, Leon's embrace makes her feel safe, safe enough to let everything out. It always gets to the point where she's about to lose her mind, but she never lets herself go over the edge. Even now, when she knows it's the last time, she doesn't say anything intimate, reckless, stupid.

She has to turn it around. It's the only way to save face. To make it easier for him.

"I can't see you any more," she says.

Leon doesn't answer.

"It's not that I don't care about you," she continues, pulling away with every ounce of strength she has. "I do care. You know that, right?"

He looks at her. His eyes are stormy. He nods, and says nothing.

"But we can't keep this up. I can't keep this up." She sighs, and her breath quivers. "I just don't feel the same way about you that you feel about..."

"Bullshit," he says. She looks at him. "That's bullshit and you know it."

"I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not lying to you."

"Why do you always have to lie to me? Why can't you just tell me the truth for once?"

"I'm telling you the truth."

"Why don't I deserve the truth?"

"Leon..."

"I would've waited for you," he says. His face is turning red, but she can't tell in the light. "I would've waited until you were ready, as long as you were honest with me. As long as you stopped playing me for a sucker and admitted how you felt."

"I just did."

"You told me you loved me once," he says. "Do you remember that?"

He heart skips. It's been so long, she'd forgotten.

"Yes."

"So you were lying then, huh? Is that what you're telling me?"

Ada looks down at the ground. The grass is wet. She can smell the earth after the rain. It's a comforting smell that reminds her of her childhood. Of picnics. Of piggy back rides. She wishes she couldn't smell anything at all. She doesn't want to be reminded. She has to choose what she says now. One word; the heaviest word she's ever had to say.

But it's for the best.

"Yes," she says.

Leon shoves his hands in his pockets and turns away. Ada watches him, watches his shoulders. They don't move. He turns back to her, and everything, there in his face, is broken.

"I should've known," he says.

"I'm sorry," she says simply. "I'm sorry for everything."

He nods.

"So am I. Because I know you're fucking lying now, too."

Ada glares at him.

"What do you want me to say, Leon?"

"I want you to tell me that you're too caught up in your agenda to admit you loved me."

"I can't do that."

"You won't do that. You've never been able to do that. I want you to admit that it was one or the other and you picked yourself over me."

"You sound like you've got it all figured out," she says, her voice tight. "You don't need me to say anything."

"I want you to be honest with me, for once," he says, his voice getting louder. "I want you to tell me I wasn't important enough."

"Don't say that," she whispers.

"I want you to stand there and tell me you cared more about being an agent than you did about me. I want to hear you say it."

"What good would that do?"

"It would make you look better."

She laughs.

"I don't care how I look to anyone."

"Not even me."

"Don't be so dramatic."

"Look who's talking."

"Leon."

"You used me," he says.

"No I didn't."

"Yeah, you did."

"I didn't use you."

"The first thing you ever said to me was a lie."

"You found out the truth soon enough, didn't you?" she asks. "You've known who I really am ever since."

"You kept me shut out."

She scoffs.

"What did you expect? That I'd just let you in on everything after that? Because you knew I wasn't just some scientist's girlfriend? Because you knew who I was and what I did?"

"I expected you to, yeah."

"It was naive of you to expect that."

"I expected it because you told me you loved me."

"So I have to give in to everything you want because of that? I have to just give up everything I've worked for because of that?"

"You didn't even try!" he yells. Ada sucks in her breath. She's never heard him yell like that before. His eyes are bright with anger. "You didn't even fucking try!"

"What good would it have done?" she says. "It would've lasted a week, maybe longer. You'd get attached and then I'd go. Is that what you wanted?"

"I wanted a chance!"

"No, you wanted me to be some fat little wife for you somewhere while you went out and saved the world!"

"I just wanted you to choose me!" he says. "You could've done whatever you wanted as long as you chose me!"

"It's not the same thing," she says.

"It is the same thing!"

"Choosing you means giving up myself," Ada says. "And I'm sorry, I can't do that Leon. Not for you or for anyone else."

This is where the cliches come from.

Leon stands there, looking at her, defeated. Ada looks back at him, expressionless. She's done it again. She's convinced herself of everything she's said and done, convinced herself that it's how she really feels. When Leon's gone back down to the bunker, when he turns off his mobile phone and starts to forget her and the next chapter begins, she'll look back on this moment and see it the way she sees everything in her life; with regret.

But not now. Now, she's safe.

"I know you've been with her," Ada says. He doesn't answer. "I saw you. At the motel. You obviously haven't been pining over me all that much."

"That's not fair," he says softly, shaking his head.

"It's alright," she replies with a small smile. "She'll be good for you. She looks like she wants the same things." She scratches her cheek and looks away. "Do you love her?"

"Yes."

She brings her hands together, starts wringing her fingers.

"Do you love me too? Still?" she asks. With caution.

He looks up at the night sky, bites his lip. When he looks at her again, his eyes are filled with tears.

"I care about you," he says, his voice shaking.

Ada nods.

She walks up to him, stands on her toes, kisses his cheek.

"See you around, handsome," she says.

She turns around and walks away.

And he doesn't call her back.

She can't see which way she's going.

And he doesn't see her disappear.

 **Fifty-Seven**

There isn't much left to eat. Everything is prepackaged and preserved, so much that it all tastes like salt. It's been sunny for days and every one of them has a craving for fruit, something that leaves a sticky juice on their chins, that reminds them of when they were kids. They want to forget the last stretch of history and concentrate on the future, or at least indulge themselves with fantasies of a future they can't possibly have. They all engage in bad mental hygiene on occasion. They're just never all in the same room when they do.

Claire is leaning against the fridge. She thought the metal would cool her down. It's surprisingly hot down in the bunker, even though they're below the earth's surface and there's no direct sunlight. She can feel the motor reverberating through her back. She's sipping a can of soda. There's a pensive look on her face. She keeps thinking about Leon, and what's in her back pocket.

Leon is sitting at the kitchen table and playing cards with Chris. There's a half empty bottle of beer next to him. He doesn't need a smoke right now, but he wants one. Proof that it's a social thing, as well as a physical one. Claire doesn't want him to smoke, though she hasn't come right out and said it. He's been chewing the same piece of gum for more than an hour. He has a pretty good hand, and feels it's about time he stopped letting Chris win.

Chris has always loved playing cards. Back in Raccoon he and the other male officers would get together after work for a game of poker. They never played for big bucks - twenty dollars in nickels looks like a lot, and the coins are easily stacked like chips. He's better at bluffing than Leon is. As a result, he's winning. Ever since Spike TV there have been a slew of televised high-stakes poker matches. Chris likes to think he beat the trend. He's got a lousy hand, but he thinks he can pull it off again.

Jill is polishing her combat boots with a rag and a bottle of back polish that was days away from going hard. She's covered all the battle scuffs and is blowing on the patches to make them dry faster. The bottle says it's quick drying paint, but there's a kind of satisfaction derived from blowing. She used to blow into her old Nintendo game cartridges too, when they didn't play right. It didn't do any good, but she felt as if she were accomplishing something. That's all that mattered. She's getting hungry too. She's had enough canned chicken soup.

HUNK and Ashley are playing the hand slapping game. Ashley lays her hands timidly on his. She pulls them away with the slightest twitch of his fingers. He keeps his eyes locked on her, the fan-like crinkles ever present, his smile serene. The second she thinks it's safe he flips his hands up and smacks hers down. It stings, and she laughs. She thinks he has to be cheating somehow. There's no way to cheat at this game, though. She just has to work on her reflexes.

Rebecca is sitting on a chair and staring down one of the bunker's long corridors. There's a room at the end of the hallway with a heavy steal door. The door is closed. She can see a layer of dirt on the linoleum. It reminds her of indoor recess, back in elementary school. Whenever it rained, the teachers used to herd the kids into the gymnasium, to keep an eye on them while they finished their lunches. There was always that grey-silver dust on the floor, from boots and shoes. It stuck to her hands whenever she leaned back. She hated indoor recesses, because there was no place to run. Recess was the only time it was alright for her to scream her head off. Cumberland's machine is behind the door. There's no use for it now.

She wants to scream her head off.

"It's quiet," she says all of a sudden.

Ashley looks at her. HUNK slaps her hands. He laughs as she punches him playfully in the arm.

"Yeah, it is." Ashley looks at everyone. They smile at her, but none of them says anything. She blushes.

"You're going down," Chris says to Leon.

"Not this time," he replies.

Chris chuckles. Leon's mobile rings.

He doesn't answer it.

"We should move on," Claire says to no one in particular. "It's stuffy down here."

"I vote we go on vacation," Jill says. She looks at Claire. "No walls."

Claire puts her hand on her back pocket and nods. Jill watches her. She can tell something's up.

"Why don't we split up?" Rebecca asks.

They look at her.

"What do you mean?" Chris asks. His eyebrows knit together.

She shakes her head and looks away.

"There's no sense in all of us being here," she says. "We don't have to be a team."

"Yeah we do," Chris says, a little too loudly. "We are a team, whether we like it or not."

"We don't even know what we're fighting," Rebecca says. "Am I crazy?"

"We're after Hollum," Claire says.

"We're not doing a very good job. He's still out there."

"It takes time."

"We haven't done anything in all this time," Rebecca says. "Nothing. We've all been sidetracked. None of us has come up with a plan to take him down. None of us has suggested anything."

"You just got back," Chris says.

"I'm just saying," Rebecca mumbles.

They know she's right, of course. All the time they've been running, hiding, letting their own dramas play out. No one has suggested going after Hollum the way they went after Umbrella, with a distinct plan. They don't know who he is or what they'd be up against, aside from the clones. He's managed to reduce their most feared and hated enemy to nothing more than a simple criminal. Anyone capable of that is not someone to fight without a plan. He isn't like their previous adversary, who they knew more intimately than they wanted to. They haven't been able to do any reconnaissance work on Hollum, to find out how he operates. They don't have the means to take him down from the inside. He's another insurmountable villain, and not a single one of them has a clue of where to start.

And they're all very, very tired.

Leon's mobile rings again. He takes it out of his pocket and turns it off, doesn't check the number. Claire sees him do it. Her stomach skips. He looks up and catches her gaze. He smiles and winks at her. She smiles back. She recognizes the look in his eye. Meet me after class. Leon calls Chris's bluff and wins the hand. The game is starting to turn. Chris looks at everyone.

"So let's talk," he says.

He collects the cards and starts shuffling them. Leon rolls his eyes. It figures Chris would stop the game once he lost a round. He rubs his eyes.

"About what?"

"About what we're gonna do."

"Do about what?"

"About Hollum," Chris says. "You listening, Kennedy?"

"I was too busy playing cards, Redfield," Leon replies. He starts to pile up his coins.

"We're all here. We might as well get on it."

"Get on it?" Claire asks, amused.

"Yeah. Rebecca's right, we've been playing chicken for too long. We should start planning our attack."

"With what information?" she asks.

"You must have some information about Hollum. He contacted you, didn't he?"

"Everything I know about Hollum came from Hollum," she says. "Which means we can't trust it. We don't know where he is or his MO. All we know is that he has the technology to clone other creatures. A bunch of guys in Scotland did the same thing with a sheep. It's not a crime."

"Then what's our next move?" Chris asks. "Someone's got to have an idea." He looks at HUNK. HUNK grins.

"I figure all quiet on the western front means we let him make the next move," he says. He starts to walk over to the fridge. Claire immediately gets out of his way and stands on the other side of the room. He takes a beer out of the fridge and pops the top off with his teeth. Jill is impressed.

"I agree," she says. "There's no way we can just get out there and get back into it. For one, we don't have an arsenal."

"We can get an arsenal," Chris says. He's getting defensive.

"Two, there are seven of us and who knows how many of him."

"That's never stopped us before."

"Three, we don't know how much he knows us. Never mind what we know of him. He probably knows more about us than we'd like him to. That's bad news."

"So what, we give up?" Chris looks at her, hoping she's not saying what he thinks she's saying. "We just let him go?"

"I'm not saying we let him go," Jill tells him. "I'm saying we have to wait."

"So no one has any real plan then, huh?" He looks around. Everyone avoids his gaze, except Ashley, who looks at him and shakes her head. Chris pushes the deck away. "Fine. I just thought you guys were still up for a fight, that's all."

"We are, just not right now," Claire says.

"I'm not," Rebecca says. Their eyes fall on her. "I'm not up for a fight. I just want to go home."

No one says anything. Aside from Chris, they all feel the same. It's quiet. Then they hear it - a muffled beeping sound. Everyone reaches for his or her own mobile device. There's only one PCD making any noise. One by one, they discover who it is.

Rebecca takes the small black contraption out of her pocket and looks at it. A single message, Incoming signal, flashes on the screen. Her face turns pale. Her hands start to sweat. She pushes a button and receives the call.

His face appears on the screen. His voice is quiet, but it shatters the silence.

"I'm outside," he says. Then the screen goes black.

Rebecca puts her hand over her mouth.

"Oh my god," is muffled by her palm.

Everyone reaches for their weapon of choice, except HUNK. He chugs the beer down and puts the bottle on the utility counter, then leans against it.

"He's not getting in here," Chris says as he snaps a full clip into his magnum. "Don't open the door."

"How the hell did he track us down?" Jill asks, getting to her feet. She wishes her boots were dry. She'd like to put them on.

"Homing device in the PCD," Leon says. "Even when it's off, they can tell where we are."

"Shit!" Chris says. Rebecca should have known to throw the thing away when she got off the plane. He bites his tongue. There's no sense in telling her off now.

"Rebecca, maybe you should..." Claire begins.

"No," she says. "No. I'm not going anywhere. He knows we have to talk."

"You can have your little heart to heart outside," Chris says, gruff. "He's not getting in here."

"It's raining."

"I don't give a shit!"

"Chris," she says. "Please don't start."

"Rebecca!"

There's a bang on the front door.

They look at each other in panic. Except HUNK. He smiles at Rebecca.

"Want me to let him in?"

Despite it all, she smiles back.

"Could you?"

He winks, then saunters off down the hallway.

There's a moment when their heads are filled with possible scenarios, possible ends. They all get blown away, the moment he steps into the room.

He's wearing black, of course. Black pants, black shirt, black shoes, black gloves. Long black leather trench coat, decorated with beads of rain. His hair is slicked back. His glasses are on. And his mouth is that same tight straight line. HUNK leaves his side and walks over to Ashley, puts his arm around her waist and pulls her to him. Everyone else lines up behind the kitchen table, with their weapons drawn. Rebecca sits on the chair and looks at him. "What do you want?" she asks.

"I have to talk to you," he says.

"Start talking."

"Not here."

"Tough shit."

He looks at everyone.

"A suitable welcome, I suppose."

"I don't have all night."

He looks at Ashley.

"And a few additions."

HUNK takes a step forward. Ashley holds him back.

"Say what you have to say and get out," Rebecca says.

He looks at her. She's beautiful.

For a long time, he doesn't speak. He keeps his hands at his sides and looks around the room, at where they've been living for the past couple of days. They shift their weight from one foot to the other and wish he'd hurry up, but he doesn't. He takes in the ugly walls, the broken cabinets, the wobbly tables. He recognizes the scene. It wasn't long ago when they were all together again. That didn't turn out the way he wanted. The disappointment doesn't phase him. He looks at Rebecca. She's watching him and waiting. Her green eyes are as big and lovely as they always are, but her jaw is set and she's glaring at him. He wants to tell her she's gorgeous when she's angry. He knows it will upset her, even though it's true.

"Not here," he says finally.

"Then get out."

"I have something for you."

"What is it?"

"Not here," he repeats.

"Then leave."

"Please..."

Chris sniggers. He looks up sharply.

"Shut up Chris," Rebecca says.

"I can't give it to you now. Not with them here."

"They're not going anywhere."

"Rebecca..."

"Just say what you have to say and get out!" she snaps. "Haven't you fucked things up enough? Just tell me and go!"

"I can't."

"Yes you can!"

She doesn't budge. He can feel her anger, her hurt, her longing. He knows he has no other choice. He didn't turn the plane around for nothing. He has to let her know.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, and takes out a piece of paper.

"I've agent Wong to thank for this," he says. "It's real. Take it." He holds it out to her.

She hesitates, then takes it from him.

She unfolds it and starts to read.

Her eyes fill with tears.

"Oh god... oh my god..." She looks up at Leon. "Can you tell a real government document from a fake?"

He nods. She walks over to him and hands him the paper. He looks it over. It doesn't take him long.

"It's real," he says.

She takes it back, looks at it again.

"Oh god..."

"What is it?" Chris asks.

She looks at him.

"It's a military document from the Sergeant of Billy's platoon, ordering his comrades to have him framed..." She looks at Claire. "It proves he's innocent... It proves he tried to stop them..."

She looks at Wesker. He doesn't move. He doesn't say anything. She walks over to him, her eyes on the paper, reading it again and again to make sure she's not dreaming. When she reaches him, she slaps him in the face.

"Why?" she yells. "Why now? Why are you doing this to me?"

"I told you why," he says softly. "On the plane."

"You son of a bitch!"

"You have a new start. It's the least I could do."

"You son of a bitch!"

He turns to go. "Don't you dare move!" she yells. "Don't you dare walk out!"

"I have nothing else to say."

"You didn't answer me!"

He looks at her, then at the rest.

"Not here," he whispers. "I'm begging you."

"Right here! Right now! You have to tell me why!"

One last chance. He's just about to leave. She steps within ten feet of him.

And his heart starts to beat.

"Because I love you," he murmurs. He looks at her. "I love you with all the heart I have left."

Silence.

They stare at him.

Rebecca's tears start to flow. It's like they never stopped.

But she smiles.

She walks up to him, and he opens his arms. He catches her, and she's safe.

And she whispers to him, softly, in his ear.

"I love you too, Nicholas."

 **Fifty-Eight**

"Nicholas Daisne," he says.

Silence.

"It's Belgian," Cumberland says.

"I'm aware of that," he replies, abrupt.

Rebecca smiles. It's a start.

Just Cumberland, Rebecca, and who was once Wesker, who may still be Wesker, standing in the room at the end of the hallway, behind the steel door. In the centre of the room stands the machine. It consists of a heavy chair, wires, tubes, and monitoring screens. The chair is made of thick steel. It's bolted to the floor. The seat is dense foam stretched tight. There are straps and buckles, made of leather and chain. The most disturbing restraint, a brutal collar, is where someone's neck would be. Pads are on either side, to cradle the head. The chair is designed to make escape a futility. Cumberland explains this.

"The blood leaves the body through these needles," he indicates the six of them, "the largest of which is located at the base of the spine." He points at the needle jutting out from the back of the chair with a pencil. "It travels through these three pipes to three different filtration pumps, located here, here, and here." He taps the pencil on each pump. The tubes are black and block out the light. The pumps can be seen through the clear glass panels that face three steel grey boxes. "The filters are designed to destroy the virus while leaving the cells intact. Here's the prototype." He hands his research, a stack of papers, to Wesker. Who better to review them? Wesker looks them over and nods, then hands them back, expressionless. "These will obviously monitor your heart rate, blood pressure, body composition, etc."

"Innovative device, Drew," Wesker admits. "It was to Umbrella's detriment that you were overlooked."

"I escaped," Cumberland says.

Wesker looks at him.

"Of course."

"There are a couple of things you should know," Cumberland says. He lowers his arm, still holding the papers, and squares his shoulders. "I don't think I have to tell you this is going to be painful."

"I suspected as much," he replies, looking at the chair, at the needles. Rebecca slips her hand into his. He squeezes her fingers gently.

"It's going to last for about a week," Cumberland says. "Non-stop."

"Duly noted."

"Also, there's no guarantee you'll survive. The second the virus leaves you, you'll be... completely dead, as opposed to..." He can't think of a way to finish his sentence. He continues. "When that happens an alarm will sound, and Rebecca and I will have roughly three to five minutes to bring you back."

"Understood."

"After the procedure's complete, your body will have to, in essence, learn how to function again. For one thing, it will take a while to keep down anything you eat, since you haven't been required to digest anything in over a decade. And you'll probably have some difficultly… um…" His face gets hot.

"Defecating?" Wesker asks with a smirk.

"Yeah," Cumberland says, embarrassed.

There's nothing worse than picturing a super villain taking a shit.

He pushes the thought out of his head and moves on. "Also, there's the possibility that you won't react to Rebecca the way you normally would."

Wesker looks at him sideways.

"What are you implying?"

Cumberland sighs.

"You already know the reason you have such a strong attraction to her is because of the virus," he says. "The virus chooses a mate, and it happens to be her. When the virus is eradicated from your system you physically won't feel the same way. Which means that, perhaps, you won't feel the same way… generally… about her."

Wesker puts his arm around Rebecca's waist and urges her closer. She puts her head on his chest. It's quiet.

"I've thought about that," he says quietly, finally. Then he nods. "I'll feel the same. I will."

Cumberland nods too.

"So… any questions?"

"My blood will go through the filtration process, then re-enter my system, correct?"

"That's right."

"And how many pints will be in circulation at one time?"

"Three to five. It's a lot, I know, but it's the only way to make sure the blood's as clean as possible before it's re-circulated."

"And how do you propose keeping that blood clean once it re-enters my system? I don't have to remind you of how quickly the virus duplicates."

"You have to have access to two extra pints of blood," Cumberland says. His face has gotten dark.

Wesker looks at him.

"That's your solution?" he asks.

"Yeah."

Wesker chuckles.

"My earlier statement was premature, it seems. It's impossible, Drew."

"No it isn't. I just need to have someone on hand who has the same blood type as you do."

"Unless you plan on hunting down any existing members of the Daisne family and subjecting them to four years of Aryan re-assessment, your idea is a failure and your machine is useless."

Cumberland looks him right in the eye.

"You wanna come clean now, Wes?"

Wesker turns his head, meets his gaze.

"What do you mean?"

Cumberland's face gets hot again. He scratches the top of his head.

"I know, Wes."

Wesker glares at him.

"Exactly what do you know?"

Cumberland takes a breath.

"You need blood from someone with your blood type. Someone related to you. HUNK may have W-15 running through his veins, but his original blood type doesn't match yours. You need a relative."

"As I said before…"

"I know, Wes." He shrugs. "This isn't a game. It's your life. If you don't have someone on hand for the transfusion, you'll die."

Rebecca raises her head and looks at Wesker.

"Please," she whispers.

Wesker shakes his head.

"I have no relatives."

Cumberland just stares at him.

"It wasn't that big a secret, Wes," he says. "Everyone knew William and Annette had hooked up. Everyone knew William was using. And you know the side effects of heavy drug use."

"I'm sure you'd be delighted to remind me."

"Among other things, the guy was shooting blanks."

Wesker chuckles. "I don't want to know how you're certain of that."

"Which means there's no way he could have fathered a child."

Wesker glares at him.

"Which means?" he asks.

Cumberland swallows.

"Which means Sherry Birkin isn't William Birkin's daughter. Is she?"

Wesker doesn't speak. His gaze is terrifying.

"You leave her out of this," he growls.

"Come on Wes, it was all on those tapes, you must know that."

"What was?"

"You and Annette." Wesker keeps him in his sights. Cumberland isn't phased. "Sherry Birkin's your daughter. Isn't she?"

Wesker steps forward, stoops to hiss in Cumberland's face.

"You leave her out of this."

"She's the only one who can save your life!"

"I won't risk her life by bringing her back here. If it means my death, so be it. It's a small price to pay."

"Where is she, Wes?"

Wesker takes another step forward.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Where is she?"

Wesker's hand shoots out, seizes Cumberland's throat, starts to squeeze. Cumberland doesn't struggle. His words continue, pinched. "I know it's a risk, but you don't have a choice. We can't risk the process without her here."

Wesker squeezes harder.

"Her life is in danger if she returns. You know that. It's absolutely out of the question. You suggest it because you want to know if your contraption works, regardless of her safety."

"It's the only way."

"Forget it."

"Nicholas."

He turns his head, looks at Rebecca, then realizes he's just answered to his name. His real name.

"We can protect her," she says.

"No you can't."

"You wanna… let go now?" Cumberland squawks. Wesker releases him. He coughs, sputters, catching his breath.

"Yes we can," she says.

"Hollum will know her whereabouts. I'm sure Agent Wong would love nothing more than to tell him she's within his grasp. I won't allow that to happen."

She shakes her head.

"You have my word," she says.

"Dear heart," he says. He lays a bare hand on her cheek, strokes her skin with his thumb. "Your word is useless against him. Do you understand that?"

"We have to try."

"If it's a choice between my life and hers…"

"It's not a question of choice, don't say that."

"I won't do it."

"If you don't tell him where she is, I will."

Wesker looks deep into her eyes. She doesn't blink.

"I've wronged her," he says softly. "Unspeakably. I won't put her in harm's way again."

"If Hollum gets his hands on you, the way you are, and he succeeds in cloning you, we're all doomed," she says. "Think of that."

"Rebecca…"

"You promised me."

"I know…"

"You trained me, you know I'm up for it. We'll protect her. Please."

He's quiet. He leans forward, touches his forehead to hers.

"Where is she, Albert?" Cumberland asks.

Wesker looks at him again.

Then he answers.

"In Berlin," he murmurs. He laughs. "She's a musician."

"Musician?"

Wesker nods.

"She doesn't get it from me, that's certain."

Cumberland looks at Rebecca.

"Who should we send in to get her?"

"HUNK," she replies. "She's safest with him."

"You'll talk to him?"

"Why don't you talk to him yourself?"

"'Cause I'm afraid of him," he admits.

"So's everyone." She sighs. "I'll speak to him."

Cumberland looks at Wesker.

"You're doing the right thing, you know."

Wesker doesn't answer him. "You guys might want to… uh…" he stammers. "… spend some time together."

"No time like the present, Drew," is his flat reply.

"Okay… okay, I'll just… go." He rubs his eyes. "I need a cigarette, anyway." He leaves.

Wesker holds Rebecca in his arms. They don't speak. She listens to his heartbeat.

Her favourite sound in the world.

"Nick?"

"Yes?"

They chuckle. They shouldn't find it funny, but they do.

"Is there a chance… even a little chance… that she isn't your daughter?"

He shakes his head.

"She's mine," he says. "I've always known it."

"Thank god…"

He kisses the top of her head.

"She'll hate me forever for this."

"Maybe she won't."

"She will," he says with a deliberate nod. "I know she will. She takes after me."

 **Fifty-Nine**

Billy looks down at the document.

It's over.

He and Rebecca are outside. The bunker is somewhere in the middle of a dense forest. There's a single floodlight on the corner of the building, beaming a bright white light through the darkness. Billy is leaning against a tree, leaning over so that those few rays of light can illuminate that single piece of paper. He's read it over and over again, read how his claims were to be deliberately ignored, and how everyone was to band together to make sure he took the fall for their mistake. Rebecca told him that Ashley's been in contact with her father, to make sure Billy gets a full pardon. This time next week, he'll be a free man, with his life back, with the worst behind him.

It's not the only thing that's over.

Rebecca put her arms around him when she saw him, but they haven't said anything yet. They've been too busy assessing the situation - Billy, his new freedom; Rebecca, her next, painful words.

Billy looks up at her. There's a small smile on his face. "You believe me now, huh?" he says, trying to make light of it. It's not funny, but Rebecca chuckles.

"I always believed you." She nods and looks down at the grass. "What I didn't know was whether or not you fired when they told you to."

Billy shakes his head.

"Not a single shot." Then he laughs. "I was a full fledged Marine and I didn't fire a single shot in my entire career."

Rebecca looks at him, large green eyes, admiration. His smile fades. "God, I'm gonna miss that face," he says.

Her eyes start to water.

"Don't say that."

"So you and him..."

"Yeah."

He puts his hand through his hair.

"Can't say I'm thrilled about it."

"Billy..." She puts her hand on his chest. "You don't have to disappear again because of that, do you?"

"I don't think I have a choice."

"You can stay. You can help us take out Hollum."

He shakes his head.

"Anything I do to take Hollum out will be on my terms. I don't play on teams. I did enough of that in the Marines."

"You can't just leave," she says. She shrugs, and feels helpless. "You can't... we finally have a chance to be normal..."

"Angel," he says, softly, but firmly. "Don't take this the wrong way, babe...we don't have a chance."

Rebecca's bottom lip starts to quiver.

"You can't be my friend?"

He opens his arms and pulls her close to him. She puts her arms around him and hugs him tight.

"I'm gonna need some time. You know? I can't just..."

"I know," she says into his chest. "I'm just dreaming."

Rebecca thinks about all the time she spent with Billy, clandestine, hiding in motels, staying in. She thinks about each and every time they fought, each and every time they made love. She thinks of his dark hair. She won't be seeing him for a while, but this time it has nothing to do with forces beyond their control. This time, it's Billy who's in control. And he's made a choice, his first choice as a free man. It breaks Rebecca's heart that it involves leaving her for a long while. But she can't expect anything else. It's up to him.

"What're you gonna do now?" he asks her.

Rebecca turns her head, so that she can be heard without having to let go.

"He's gonna go through the procedure, first off."

"Right." He strokes her hair. "You okay with that?"

She nods.

"I'm scared."

"Why?"

"Cumberland told me later, when he wasn't around, that the pain will be so intense it might... there's a chance that he'll lose his mind." She pauses. "I don't know if he can pull through."

"Seems like the kind of guy who can."

"You mean that?"

"From what I know of him, yeah."

She holds him tighter.

"Thank you."

He brushes her hair back. He doesn't want to tell her what he really thinks. He's entitled to a little white lie.

"What about when it's over?"

"When it's over, we go after Hollum. All of us. Leon says he knows some people who have had dealings with Umbrella in the past, in one way or another. He says they want to help."

"You know these people?"

"No, but Leon's well connected and I know he's checked them out." She looks up at him. "What do you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"You saw him. Do we have a chance?"

Billy looks at the bunker door.

"There's always a chance."

Billy contacted her the minute he was sure he'd escaped. She arranged a rendezvous at the bunker. It's alright that he knows where they are. Billy will always be on her side. He told her about how he managed to get out of Germany without being detected. He told her about the flight. And he told her about the attempted ambush. The second he mentioned the young men with red hair, Rebecca recognized Claire's earnest description of Steve Burnside. Rebecca took a deep breath, grateful that they didn't choose to mutate into their alternative BOW forms. There's no way Billy would have been able to survive an assault of that magnitude. Billy told her he finally got a good look at the man he's been working with, the man who originally said she needed to be rescued. She asked what he looked like.

"Like Wesker," he said. "Only..."

"He's thin, like, really thin, like his bones can't support any muscle. And his face is all... caved in... like someone punched him a bunch of times and their fist left dents that never healed. I punched him once and it felt like punching a pile of dry twigs... brittle... his skin's like paper. The colour's like candle wax, or like lard, all pale and sick looking... I could see all the veins underneath. His hair's thin. He looks like Wesker. Like Wesker's corpse."

Rebecca pushes the memory out and tries to concentrate on the here and now. Billy's arms remain strong around her, but he knows that any moment, he's going to have to say goodbye. Again.

"I'll keep my eye out for you," he says finally. "If you need anything, call me."

She chuckles.

"You're finally giving me your number?"

"Yeah, I know, huh?"

"Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"I just want to say..."

She looks up at him, and finds she can't continue.

"I love you too," he says. "Always."

Her voice is soft, strained.

"Promise you'll keep in touch," she says. "Promise me you'll come back."

He smiles.

"What'll your boyfriend think of that?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"He won't be thrilled, but he'll have to deal. I think he's learned to deal. Well, learning."

"What does he think about you and me standing out here in the dark together?"

Rebecca puts her head on his chest again.

"Can't you guess?"

He nods.

"Yeah, I can guess."

He holds her.

"So this is goodbye again," he says.

Rebecca's shoulders start to shake. "I'm coming back."

"I don't deserve you to be good about this," she sobs. "I don't deserve it."

"Hey," he says, nudging her away so he can get a good look at her face. "You deserve the best. You're the best person I know."

"About Berlin..."

"Don't."

He cups her face in his hands. "Don't. Okay?"

She seizes him again, holds him tight.

"I know you're coming back. I won't give up. I promise."

He smiles.

"Hey," he says.

"What?"

"We didn't fight."

Rebecca starts to cry. He laughs and smooths his hand over her back. "Come on, Drama Queen, stop it."

"I'm so sorry..."

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

"I just..."

"Rebecca."

She doesn't finish her sentence. He pulls away, looks down at her again. "Can I kiss you goodbye?" he asks.

She nods. Her face is wet with tears. He doesn't care. He raises her chin, leans down, kisses her. Kisses her again. They fumble for each other, embrace. "I'm coming back," he murmurs into her hair. "I just need some time. But I'm coming back. I'm on your side. Always."

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you too."

They hold each other a while longer. Then, slowly, he eases out of her arms, bends down, picks up his rucksack, throws it over his shoulder. He smiles at her. "Almost forgot." He reaches into his back pocket, takes something out. It catches the light.

A single chain.

Two dog-tags.

"You don't have to wear them," he says. "Just... keep them."

She reaches out and takes them, lets the chain curl up in the palm of her hand. She closes her fingers around it. She looks at him. He stands at attention and salutes. She giggles through her tears, straightens up, and returns the gesture. He nods. Then he turns around, and disappears in the darkness.

Rebecca remains where she is for a long time. She lets it run its course. Then she turns and heads back to the bunker, to her choice, to her friends, to her lover.

It's funny, how closely the beginning resembles the end.


End file.
